


Those Who Trespass Against Us

by green_gem_jezebel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A smut scene will include a prayer at some point, Discussions of Morality, Literary References, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Obviously mentions religious things, Philosophy, Right so heres my first work, Slow Burn, So if you dislike that kind of sacrilege stay away, Theres gonna be some naughty bits later on, Time Travel, desi!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_gem_jezebel/pseuds/green_gem_jezebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" 'Damn the Dursleys’ was Harry’s first thought as he rounded the corner at a sprint. ‘And damn butter and eggs to the furthest recesses of hell.’<br/>See he should’ve known from the minute he woke up drenched in sweat and crying that his day would go badly. Harry could only recall the familiar dark eyes and swirls of tangible, scratchy magic that had plagued his dream, but the rest was lost to him. Slipped through his fingers like silt as he awoke."</p><p>Harry is having a pretty shitty morning already, but when a strange man attacks him and sends him hurtling through time to the summer of 1943 Harry learns that an insane Dark Lord and Death Eaters are the least of his worries. Harry must learn to navigate the Hogwarts of 1943, and avoid the attentions of a still sane Tom Riddle. A Tom Riddle who is still building his future empire and will ruthlessly root out any threat and destroy it. Or them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody, so this is my first Tomarry fic ever (yaaayyy)! I know the time travel fic is a bit cliche, but I had an idea I couldn't let go of. Hope y'all enjoy this!  
> (It's not Brit picked so whoops)

‘Damn the Dursleys’ was Harry’s first thought as he rounded the corner at a sprint. ‘And damn butter and eggs to the furthest recesses of hell.’ His second and third thoughts were expletives of immense creativity and rudeness, and the rest of his brainpower he directed toward finding an escape. Harry imagined things might’ve been easier had he been able to use magic, but after the close call he had with the ministry last summer, wherein he fought off _two bloody dementors_ and was very promptly threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he decided not to risk exposure in the middle of a Muggle residential street. There was only so much leeway the Boy-Who-Lived would be allowed. Harry glanced behind him as he ran, wincing at the stitch in his side all the while, and tried to see through the blood and sweat that had gotten in his eyes. Yes, the man was still following him, though he too looked winded.

See he should’ve known from the minute he woke up drenched in sweat and crying that his day would go badly. Harry could only recall the familiar dark eyes and swirls of tangible, scratchy magic that had plagued his dream, but the rest was lost to him. Slipped through his fingers like silt as he awoke.

His aunt had no sympathy for the tired boy, as the minute he came into the kitchen after his morning ministrations she very nastily demanded he go to the store and pick up a few groceries she needed. Though, in what Harry considered a heroic effort, he managed to hold off rolling his eyes at her, Petunia’s keen eyes spotted an attitude and as such she gave him a nice little telling off before tossing some notes at him and sending him on his, in her words, ‘no good, delinquent way.’

After he had purchased the few odds and ends Aunt Petunia had listed, he had begun to make his way home. Harry had felt that something was off, the hairs on the back of his neck were raised and he felt the familiar tingle of residual magic, similar and not to Diagon Alley. Harry heard scuffling and looked back to see a man walking the same way. There was something different about the man, though he looked remarkably normal with graying hair and a relaxed gait. He wore muggle clothing in time with the current trends, all of it matched and casual, looking to the casual observer as though he was just out for a quick walk. Harry knew, however, that appearances were deceiving and his instincts told him not to trust the man’s supposed harmlessness.

Harry sped up and rounded another corner, looking back to find the man had gone. ‘Maybe he hadn’t been trailing me,’ Harry thought as he scanned his surroundings carefully, ‘Maybe I’m just being para-.’ WHAM. Harry felt the force of a spell hit him in his side and knock him to the ground, Aunt Petunia’s eggs and cream cushioned his fall only slightly, while his forehead impacted with the pavement with a THWAP. A weight settled on his back and pinned him to the ground, leaving him unable to reach to his wand in his back pocket. Harry heard huffing and puffing from above him and he could feel legs on either side of his torso as the man began chanting. Harry’s arms flailed around in his search for leverage, something to grasp onto, a rock, anything, before they found a small can of tuna.

He then swung one long arm around and tossed the can in the general vicinity of the breathing, hearing a satisfying THUNK, a few swears, and feeling the man shift. This was all Harry needed in order to twist and dislodge his attacker. He kicked at the vague shimmery form indicative of a Disillusionment Charm and broke into a run, sprinting around corners and through Little Whinging like a man possessed.

The bloodied boy looked back once more to find the man had shed his Disillusionment and was gaining on him. ‘Right, bugger the Ministry.’ Harry thought as he whipped out his wand.

“Stupefy!” He shouted as he threw his wand arm behind him.

The gray haired man deflected and threw a nonverbal orange spell of his own.

“Potter!” The man bellowed. “Potter, wait! Harry James Potter!”

Harry ignored the man and opted instead to cut through the alley. He recognized the streets now. They were very close to St. George’s, his primary school, and Harry knew how to get to safety from there if the Ministry Aurors didn’t arrive on time. Luckily, he heard the tell tale pop of a wizard Apparating nearby.

“Harry!” A familiar voice called. “Stupefy! Harry look out!” But it was too late,in the split second he had turned on instinct towards the voice (Remus’ he noted) the enemy wizard managed to knock him flat with another nonverbal spell, catch up, grab Harry’s arm, and began chanting again. The last thing Harry saw was Remus’ outstretched hand, reaching, but grasping nothing but air just inches from where Harry and the man disappeared in a flash of orange lightning.

* * *

“Boy.” Harry heard a muffled, fuzzy voice call gently. He groaned. His eyes snapped open, before he shut them against the light with another groan.

“Aye, looks like you took a rather good knock to the noggin if that bump is anything to go by. Ah yes, there’s a good chap. Open those eyes. Slowly now, slowly.” Harry was pleased to note he could open his eyes without it feeling like a pike had been very suddenly driven through the top of his skull. Once his vision stopped spinning he began to recognize the sterile, white walls and the smell of fresh linen. Why, it was the Hogwart’s infirmary! He bolted up into a sitting position and looked towards the source of the voice. It was an elderly man, not the same that had been chasing him. The man had a short rounded nose and a round face. His hair was all white save for a few strands here and there that stubbornly remained black, and he had a slight hunch. Harry recognized the wizard. He had seen his portrait in Professor Dumbledore's office not even two months ago, when the previous Hogwarts headmaster, Armando Dippet, had scolded him for his breakdown after Sirius…after the events in the Department of Mysteries. It took him a few moments to realize the professor had been speaking.

“-took us by surprise, of course. It’s not every day a bloodied boy falls from the sky in a flash of lightning. Especially on a rather sunny day. Lucky our own Professor Dumbledore had been on one of those strolls he so loves taking. Oh here’s me rambling on. Do you speak English then?”

Harry’s head was swimming. He chose not to be insulted as he had just been staring at the headmaster with his mouth near touching the floor. That didn't stop him from interjecting a little bit of dryness into his voice.

“Yes I speak English. Sir. I’m just… I'm really rather confused. Have I-have I been trapped in a portrait or...I-this is Hogwarts isn't it? You said Professor Dumbledore found me?”

“Portrait? What on Earth do you mean portrait? That bump must've rattled you a bit more than we thought.” He exclaimed, sounding a bit bemused. “Madame Bobbit will get you fixed up straight away.  
“Madame Bobbit!” Professor Dippet called.

“Yes. _Yes_ , headmaster I can hear you perfectly fine! Now scoot a bit.” A middle aged woman, no doubt the Madame Bobbit that had been summoned by the former headmaster, came out from Madame Pomfrey’s office. She was short and very slightly plump with broad shoulders and a stern face. Her mousey brown hair was streaked with only a few strands of gray and was tucked away under her nurse’s cap very neatly.

“Alrighty deary,” She began as she pulled her wand from her sleeve. “Why don’t we start wi-” The doors of the infirmary opened, cutting Madame Bobbit off soundly. A man walked in. He was wearing bright green robes with sky blue pegasi flying about on them. It all clashed horribly with his graying auburn hair and beard. It wasn’t until Harry met the man’s ice blue eyes, spotting the twinkle that nearly always shined, that he recognized who it was.

“Professor Dumbledore!” Harry exclaimed. The professor stopped in his tracks, looking rather taken aback.

“Ah.” Dumbledore said slowly. “I’m afraid I can’t return such an enthused hello.”

“Albus, this is...well we haven’t gotten his name yet, but the poor boy seems to be under the impression he’s been trapped in a portrait. I imagine it’s the bump on his head, but-”

“Ahem,” Madame Bobbit said crossly. “If I could _get on with my examination_.” Dippet quieted, looking properly chastised, while Professor Dumbledore motioned for her to continue with a smile. Harry thought it looked more cheeky than charming, but it seemed to appease the matronly nurse.

“Why don’t I start with some diagnostics. These spells won’t hurt dear, so don’t you worry.” She told him soothingly, waving her wand in front of his forehead and muttering to herself.

“There doesn’t seem to be any major damage, no internal bleeding, or bone breaks. Can you tell me your full name darling?”

“Harry James Potter.” Harry dutifully replied.

“And how old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Alright Mr. Potter, the date now if you’d please.”

“July 17, 1996.” It grew very quiet.

“Mr. Potter, I- surely you can’t mean...Albus! How did you say you found him? How exactly?” Harry wasn’t an idiot, and he certainly wasn’t so oblivious as to miss the shock on all three adults’ faces. He was very quickly catching on to the fact that Dumbledore was young, and Professor Dippet was Headmaster, and that he was lying in the infirmary headed by Madame Bobbit rather than Madame Pomfrey. “Madame Bobbit, if we could just have the room.” Professor Dippet asked, not without a note of steel that as of yet had been absent in his ramblings. The matron pursed her lips, but obeyed either way. Dippet turned to Dumbledore.

“You said he fell from the sky? Mr. Potter, could you tell us how you came to be here? From...1996 was it?” Dippet conjured up two chairs. “Leave no detail out, young man. And don’t you dare lie.”

“I’m not actually sure how I got here, sir. I was sent to the store for my Aunt, and I noticed a man was following me. Something felt off, and out of nowhere he attacks me. I managed to get away and ran, firing off spells, hoping the ministry would show up, but they were too late. He grabbed me before my friend Remus could help. I just remember orange light surrounding the man and me. And then I woke up here in...whatever year it is now.” Harry had said all of this without taking a breath, feeling both like Hermione and very slightly light headed. He reached up to touch his tender forehead, his thumb brushing the empty bridge of his nose.

“My glasses!” Harry had had those things since he was 7 years old, never once had he given up on them, and now he had lost them and he would be blind in whatever bloody year it was.

“Oh, yes.” Professor Dumbledore piped in, “I had nearly forgotten.” He reached into his robes and pulled out exactly half of Harry’s eyeglass frames. “It’s July 17, 1943, by the way.” He finished as Harry stared down at his glasses.

“I had noticed you were dressed rather oddly, though I thought perhaps it might be cultural wear of some type.” Professor Dippet added. Dumbledore closed his eyes, and took a single breath in, while Harry’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “In any case, I imagine this all must be rather disconcerting all around. I’ll have to research this orange lightning. I’ll likely not contact the ministry as of yet,” He continued whilst standing and banishing his chair. “They’re rather tetchy at the mo’. This whole Grindelwald business, and that awful muggle war.” Dippet was murmuring to himself more than anyone at this point, closing the door behind himself with a snap. Then it was silent, the air thick with awkwardness.

“Armando is a lovely man, Mr. Potter, but sometimes he speaks before he thinks. Ravenclaw brain, with none of the follow through.” Dumbledore sighed.

“Sure, sir.” Harry paused, unsure as to what to ask first. There were so many questions. Did Dumbledore know anything more? Had he identified the spell on his own yet? “What were you doing with my glasses?” Was the only thing that came out. ‘Great,’ Harry thought, “Now I look like an absentminded half wit.’ Dumbledore chuckled.

“Well Harry, may I call you Harry?” Harry nodded. “You had visible wisps of magic coming off you and your clothes like steam before it dissipated. Your glasses were the only things unaffected. Beyond only having half of the frame. I thought I might do some tests on them to see why.” He held up a hand before Harry could ask anything. “I found nothing. Not a trace of magic.”

“Sir, could _you_ not send me back home?” Harry inquired, half pleading. “You’re the greatest sorcerer I’ve ever met.” Dumbledore furrowed his eyebrows.

“I take it we’re close in your time for you to place such faith in me.”

“Yes, you’re my headmaster, and you defeated-” Once more Dumbledore held up a hand.

“Forgive me Harry, but I must ask you not to tell me of my future accomplishments.” He continued over Harry’s protests, “I find myself more than tempted to ask, but anything you say may throw me off course, changing the very history around us.”

“But, sir! I’m here now. Wouldn’t that throw history off course anyway? You certainly never mentioned meeting me in 1943.” Harry’s well of patience had ran out, and the shock wore off. He was spitting angry. “I’ve been dropped here by some bloody Death Eater no doubt. Hoping I’d die or be converted or some nonsense.”

“Death Eater?” Dumbledore cut in. “What do you mean Death Eater?”

“They follow Lord Voldemort. There’s a war on in my time and-”

“What still?”

“No,” Harry said darkly, “A new war. Like I said, they follow a Dark Lord named Voldemort and-”

“You’re a soldier! You’re not yet 16, you cannot possibly be fighting in a war, future me allows you to-”

“Well you see, I have no choice. I-”

“You’ve been drafted? What on Earth am I up to in your time? I hope I haven’t drafted the entirety of the student body. What could you possibly do against-”

“No you don’t understand. There’s a prophecy, Voldemort killed my parents over it, it says I have to fight him, and-”

“A load of tosh,” Dumbledore interrupted strongly. “Prophecies? Dark Lords? You’re fifteen years old, and an orphan to boot. I don’t see how you could win an entire war.” Harry was both shocked and offended. The younger Dumbledore was visibly angry, and saying things so at odds with his future self it made Harry's head spin. “I’ve seen what fate drives men to do, Mr. Potter, I’ve seen what men will do for their supposed destiny.” Piercing blue bore into emerald as Dumbledore spoke. “The horrors of war are never brought on by the apathetic, and no one crosses into the dark so happily as a man who believes he is guided by the universe. I would've hoped I remembered that, no matter who I become, or what predictions I hear.”

Harry had no idea what to say back. Who knew the Professor could be so morose, so downtrodden. They sat there quietly for a few moments, both lost in their own thoughts.

“Professor?” Harry called gently. Dumbledore came back to himself. “Sorry, but. You never answered my question. Can you send me back?” Dumbledore sighed once more, adjusting himself in his chair.

“What do you know of time travel?” He asked.

“Not much.” Harry admitted. “I mean, when I was a third year my friend Hermione and me used a time turner to go back and save my godfather from a Dementor’s Kiss and saved a Hippogriff from execution.” Dumbledore’s eyes lit up with surprise and interest, even as he asked his next question.

“And when you used this...time turner…to go back, did you find yourselves causing some of the events you experienced previously?”

“Yes, exactly! Why? What does it mean?” Harry queried eagerly. Maybe Dumbledore could get him back to his time.

“The popular theory at the moment, is that time is a single stream. One could theoretically go back and divert the stream for a bit, but it always returns to it’s original form, and those diverting events are a springboard for the original timeline.”

“Theoretically?” Harry asked weakly. “You mean, you mean no ones sure? That this is all-”

“Hypothetical? Yes. We’ve not yet advanced beyond theory. Which means…well…”

“I’m stuck here.” Harry said flatly, in spite of the tumultuous riot that was going on in his head. Dumbledore pat his hand in an attempt to be consoling.

“I’ll talk to Armando about accommodations for you dear boy.”

Harry threw his head back against the headboard.


	2. In the Firmament of Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so second chapter, more building and such.

July 19, 1996

Two days had passed with no sign of Harry.

Every member of the Order had their eyes peeled and their ears to the ground. When Professor Dumbledore had called an emergency meeting, many had thought Voldemort had made another move. None, except for the professor and Remus, knew that their teen saviour had been taken. The meeting had taken place at the burrow, the Weasley’s having graciously offered their home as a temporary headquarters, and had gone to shit very quickly.

All had been calm, order members crowded into the kitchen, greeting old friends and meeting new ones, before Dumbledore swept in with Remus and Shacklebolt trailing behind him.

“What’s happened now then?” Someone called from the back. “Surely you wouldn’t call all of us, if things were tame.” Another said.

Dumbledore raised his hand to bring the meeting to silence, unaware that the gesture was near identical to the one he made 50 years previous. “I’m afraid,” Dumbledore began softly. “That there’s bad news. The worst. It seems young Harry has been taken. Kidnapped by an unknown man.” He gestured to a very tired looking Shacklebolt, whom began speaking even over the exclamations of shock and horror Order members were emitting, most notably Mrs. Weasley, who gave a gasp before putting a hand to her mouth to stifle her cries.

“At around nine this morning the ministry received reports of underage, exposed magic in the residential neighbourhood of Little Whinging.” He said very tiredly. “Apparently the muggles had seen a bloodied boy, later identified by a neighbour as Potter, running through the streets firing lights at a pursuant. As of yet, we’ve been unable to obtain a detailed description of the man chasing Potter, it seems he used a very powerful concealment spell and left almost no evidence.” Here, Remus cut in.

“The man was older, gray haired, medium build. I couldn’t see his face. Every time I try to remember his features it’s as if they slip straight out my mind.” He took a deep breath, and continued. “Harry left the house during an Order guard shift change, by the time I got there he had already left the safe zone.” Remus seemed to slump. “I asked his aunt where he had gone, and after a few minutes she pointed me towards a grocery store. When I got there he had already left, I asked a few muggles if they’d seen where Harry had gone. I used a point me to track him from the store, and then I-I followed the smell of blood. Harry’s voice came from a nearby alley way, so I apparated closer.” He took a deep shuddery breath. “I...I couldn’t get close enough. I tried to stop them, but they disappeared.”

“How could this happen?” Molly demanded, her face redder than a tomato and lined with tear tracks. “He’s just a boy, professor, not even of age yet, and he’s caught up in a war!” Molly was livid. “How much more must he go through?” Her words had woken others from their shock, some of them agreed with her, others did not. Molly's questions broke the floodgates either way. The Order members were shouting at each other across the tables, laying blame, arguing, demanding explanations. Professor Dumbledore could provide no answers. He had no words of consolation, nothing he could say to ease their fears, and in those few minutes Dumbledore felt all 115 of his years.

* * *

 

Little did the Order know a similar, if smaller, meeting was taking place in the topmost bedroom of the Burrow. Two gingers and one bushy haired brunette sat huddled together, hunched over in an attempt to hear the words coming from a tinny speaker. 

Ginny knew the moment her mother asked her to help arrange the kitchen something big was happening. All her mother would tell her was Dumbledore had called an emergency meeting and the house needed to be ready to host. Ginny’s mind ran wild with possibilities. She knew Harry was safe, for lack of a better term, at the Dursleys’, so it must have to do with Voldemort.

‘Either way,’ Ginny thought, ‘I’m not missing this for the world.’ And so, having decided, she had set up a system of Extendable Ears, well hidden and strategically placed. Fred and George had seen one of the ears, and helped her rearrange the more difficult ones with a few quickly placed sticking charms, winking at her when they were done. ‘Good of them, even if they'll be in the actual meeting.’ She ran up the stairs to Ron’s room once everyone started arriving, bursting in on Ron and Hermione, and interrupting what seemed to be a serious conversation. She paused, suddenly apprehensive. 

“Sorry.” she said hurriedly. “I just thought you both might want to hear what's happening.” Ginny held up the end of an Extendable Ear. She preened a bit under Ron’s, “Brilliant!” And noticed even Hermione looked more curious than disapproving this time around. And so they sat and listened in. 

All three were shocked. Harry was gone? Impossible. “I just got a letter from him yesterday!” Hermione exclaimed. “He’s been doing so much better lately! I just don't…” She very quickly wiped at her eyes. Ron raised his head from where he had buried it into his hands, clenching and unclenching his fingers in his hair. He reached over to pat her hand, pale and scarred meeting dark and smooth. 

“He’ll-he’ll be alright.” Ron said, less sure than he'd like to be. “I mean. He's always alright. Harry's a fighter. He's probably mouthing off to whatever bastard took him as we speak. Death by irritation.” Hermione cracked a sad smile, catching his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. Ron could imagine Harry bursting into his room right now, wild hair flying about and his green eyes standing stark against his brown skin, filled to the brim with righteous anger. ‘You won't bloody believe what happened!” He'd say, waving his arms around to emphasize his points and pacing back and forth. ‘No,’ Ron mused, ‘Harry’s never broke before, he won't start now.’ That didn't stop his chest tightening at the thought of Harry in the hands of Death Eaters. 

* * *

 

Two days passed. And another day. And another. Fatigue could be seen in the slumps of Order members shoulders, in the hollows of their cheeks, in the bags under their eyes. Lupin seemed to be the worst, though he was closely followed by Dumbledore. Beyond finding half of Harry’s glasses frame, with trace amounts of unidentifiable magic, there had been no further developments. ‘No news is good news.’ Lupin thought to himself. Snape had already checked in with Dumbledore. There was no sign that the Dark Lord had Harry, and Snape doubted Voldemort would keep such an achievement quiet. Lupin had to agree. He had heard grumblings about how they should be looking for a body by now from another Order member, and had to be restrained by Arthur, the twins and Ron before he jumped on him, even if the latter looked like he wanted to take a swing as well.

After having calmed down, Ron and Hermione pulled him to the side and threw him a lifeline.

“Harry’s endured so much Professor. He is so exceedingly stubborn, death is not an option.” Hermione stated strongly. ‘He’s clever, and he's scrappy, and he's a survivor. We’ll get him back.” 

“We’d know if he was...” Ron swallowed rapidly, “We'd just know. We'd feel it.” Ron nodded, as if he needed his own agreement before anyone else's. Remus clung to these words, hoping beyond hope that they turned out to be true.

“ ‘Sides, Harry's not one to roll over easily.” 

* * *

 

July 30th, 1943 

Harry rolled over for the thousandth time. He couldn't find a comfortable position at all and had been tossing and turning all night. Harry threw off his blankets with a sigh. He never slept very well the night before his birthday, but he knew this year he wouldn’t hear the distinctive owl taps on the window at exactly midnight. For the first time since he was twelve years old he could expect no presents, no well wishes or cards, and definitely none of Mrs. Weasley’s homemade treats. Harry sighed again and cast a tempus charm. ‘11:23 pm’ it read in large print, hanging in the air above Harry’s head. ‘One good thing about all of this nonsense,’ Harry thought to himself, ‘Is the magic.” 

He had known the minute he stepped into Headmaster Dippet’s office, only a day after his arrival, that he was going to get bad news. The man had proceeded to tell him what he already knew, they could not get him home. Harry had sat down heavily. 

“We’ll have to arrange your stay here.” Dippet chirped. “There’s a fund for those that cannot afford supplies and such, so you’ll have assistance. You’ll likely have to stay here for the duration of the summer, highly unusual I assure you, but what’ve we got guest quarters for if we don’t use them.” He chuckled for a bit. “I’ve also reached out to a few old friends of mine. You’ll be taking your OWLs in August, just a formality, you understand. We can’t have a student moving on to sixth year with no OWLs, how irresponsible would that be!” He laughed again. Harry was shocked. 

“You did all that in a day?” He asked incredulously. Dippet leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. 

“Well I wasn’t made headmaster for nothing.” Dippet said lowly, his grin widening. “Oh dear boy, it only takes a few friends and some flattery to make your way in this world.” He winked at Harry and continued. “Now there’s the matter of your identity…” They had decided on Harry having been the son of Dippet’s close friend’s sister. Distant enough that any unfamiliarity or awkwardness could be explained away, but not distant enough for him to have been able to refuse granting a favor. 

His fictional parents and uncle had died in the war (and didn’t that give Harry the shivers), and his “aunt” had only consented to sending Harry James, as he was called now, to Hogwarts after realizing she couldn’t homeschool him herself. Dippet had seemed delighted with this mental exercise, and Harry personally thought Dippet might have seen all of this as a particularly challenging game. 

Harry cast his head to the side, staring out the window into the night sky. ‘I’ll be sixteen in a few minutes.’ Harry thought morosely. He couldn't help but feel lonely, an almost man out of time, without a friend in the world. He let his eyes drift close as the stars outside winked at him, and the breeze sang him a lullaby of rustling branches and soft whistling. ‘I wonder what this new year will bring.’

Harry really shouldn’t have jinxed himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, i know. No Tom yet. But I need to set up a few things before I jump right in, and I did say slow burn. OK next chapter things really get going. Harry and Tom have their first meeting and then we get introduced to the Boys.


	3. A Spectacle Before Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannddd we're here. hope y'all have your floaties on cuz we're diving in. A little more Dippet, a little more building, and a meeting.

August 31, 1943

Professor Armando Dippet sat in his dimly lit office thinking. It was not an unfamiliar scene. He often lost himself in thought for hours on end, for all his rambling when aware. This particular habit of his had earned him the title of absent minded in his schooldays from those that didn’t bother to look closer, and his fellow Ravenclaws grew used to his blank stare and still body. Some of his closer friends deigned to drape a blanket on him on colder nights, not minding the lack of a thanks. For when Armando awoke from his stupor, he always had the most fascinating thoughts to share, and would very often spark multiple debates that could last months and would spill over into other houses. Ravenclaw had very few boring nights. Many of his schoolmates graduated with fond memories of Armando and his strange sort of intelligence. It helped Dippet later, when he began his career as an Astronomy professor, a most surprising decision, and worked his way up to Headmaster. The connections he had made as a student, and later as a teacher allowed him to call in favors with no questions asked. It helped when a friend needed a job, or a student needed a mentor, or now, when a boy hurled through time needed his help.

The boy was the subject of his thoughts now.

Harry had been especially tight lipped after being informed he couldn’t go home, only opening up a bit once Harry and Dippet spent many afternoons together studying for his OWLs. “My dear boy,” Armando had said after Harry expressed his surprise at the proffered help, “I’ve taken responsibility for you, and I am a teacher, I couldn’t possibly allow you to flounder about with no guidance. Especially since I’ve no idea how much the curriculum has changed in your time.” Harry had still looked a bit suspicious, but had agreed anyway. Armando couldn’t deny it didn’t hurt he’d be able to learn more about the boy during their study sessions. Careful as Harry was, he couldn’t help but let a few things slip.

Armando knew by now that Harry had been the son of a Potter, but was not Pureblood, and had been raised by muggles. He observed Harry’s magical power and found him almost up to his standards. The boy was powerful, if a little sloppy, and he carried himself like a fighter. Luckily, most of the material Armando threw at him was merely review, and he’d only had to teach him a few basics from Potions, shore up his Astronomy knowledge, and a good amount of wizard history. This naturally led to amiable debates. Harry wasn’t the most eloquent, he sometimes couldn’t find the right words, but he had the power of conviction (a trait that greatly impressed Armando).

_“But I don’t understand!” Harry declared while discussing an old Dark Lady from the 16th century. “Why would anyone follow her? The only thing she promised was chaos and destruction. She never says she’ll fix anything, or change anything. She calls for more ritualistic sacrifice for God’s sake. She’s clearly evil.” Armando tapped his chin thoughtfully._

_“How do you define evil, Harry?” Armando asked finally._

_“Well. Well I’d say evil is just, ya know, doing bad things to other people.” Harry said falteringly. “It’s making people hurt for no other reason than you wanted to.” Armando nodded._

_“So you believe evil is the actions one takes?” Harry shook his head._

_“Sort of. The acts are just part of it. A large part sure, but only a part. Evil comes from inside of you. It’s like letting your soul go dark, and then acting on that darkness.” Harry had been waving his hands around for emphasis, surety present behind every word. It was an interesting definition, if short._

_“‘Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion and knowledge.’ Plato said that.” Armando paused, taking a second to gather his thoughts. “For many, there is no higher law, than the law of desire. They wish to have something, and so they strive to acquire it, no matter the consequences. For others, emotion is the highest power you can call upon. It fuels our spells, allows us to connect to other humans, and can even save a life. But to lose control of one’s emotions, is to lose control of one’s self. Emotion can drive a man to murder, can drive a happy couple to ruin. An excess of emotion can be the doom of a good person. And knowledge.” He paused once more. Chuckling very lightly when he looked up and saw Harry enraptured in his words._

_“Knowledge is a double edged sword in every sense of the saying. Those without knowledge may be content, but can also be ruled over very easily. Those with it may be clearer eyed and more open to discovery, but may also believe it is their right to rule. The subjugation of the unknowledgable makes sense to them, and why shouldn’t those who’ve learned more have all the best?” Armando phrased the last bit as a question deliberately, curious to see how Harry would respond. Harry thought for a second, his brow furrowing._

_“It’s not fair to subjugate anyone, regardless of their circumstances, or intelligence, or any other factor. And I don’t understand anyone who thinks it’s alright to oppress others. Someone told me,” at this he paused and took a breath, “They told me that there’s light and dark in all of us, and what matters is what part we choose to act on. I like to think, maybe, it means anyone can find balance in themselves.” The boy’s green eyes shone. There was a light behind them, clear and strong, and only served to make him look more sure of himself, in spite of the dark bags under his eyes. Armando smiled again, this time more pleased than amused._

_“I rather like that thought.” Armando said gently. “And now our time is up. I shall see you tomorrow Harry. Make sure to study the Potions text tonight, I may well give you a small quiz.” Harry gathered up his books, waved goodbye while giving the headmaster a small smile, and walked out the door._

It had continued like this all through the rest of July, and for a good chunk of August. Harry had taken his OWLs on the 23rd and according to the results they’d gone over a few days later, had done very well indeed. Outstanding in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Exceeds Expectations in all the rest, excepting Divination in which he received an Acceptable. ‘That’s only because you lent me that book on Divining through tea leaves, pretty sure that carried me through as I was rubbish with the crystal ball.’ Harry had said jokingly. Armando was once more pleased with Harry James, and Harry himself was very pleased with his grades.

More than once Harry had left him speechless. The 16 year old had such a keen sense of righteousness, and refused to accept any sort of injustice, while also holding prejudices many wizards influenced by the light showed. Not to say the dark weren't just as guilty of prejudice. No, no one was innocent. However, Armando hadn't even needed Harry to tell him he had been a Gryffindor for him to have figured it out. Harry had constantly revealed his disdain for the house of Slytherin and confessed to not knowing much about Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. He was also absolutely rabid about quidditch, as were half of the students in the school. Though none surpassed this year's head girl and Gryffindor quidditch captain, Minnie McGonagall. Harry had laughed when he had told him this, but waved his hand in an ‘oh nothing’ sort of gesture.

Harry had reminded him of someone, though it escaped him whom. There was a certain set of the shoulders. A quiet intelligence. A subtle power that lurked just beneath the surface. Harry was unintentionally charming, and a bit bit self-deprecating at times, and Armando couldn’t help but grow fond of him. Nor could he wait to see how this year turned out.

* * *

 

September 1, 1943

‘Today’s the day.’ Harry thought. ‘Everyone’s probably on the train on their way to Hogwarts.’ Harry knew Hermione and Ron likely were worried, but he couldn’t get the image of them both smiling and laughing surrounded by their friends out of his mind. Harry shook his head to rid himself of the daydreams, just as a knock sounded at the door.

Harry got up from the desk near his bed to answer the door. It was Professor Dumbledore. Harry smiled at him. “Ah, Harry. Headmaster Dippet has asked to speak with you.” The professor said happily. Today he wore open robes in a russet color with a purple crushed velvet trouser and waistcoat set. Harry choked on a laugh.

“Alright.” Harry and Dumbledore left his rooms. Harry liked the younger Dumbledore. He was much freer with his words, and far less obsessed with lemon drops. They had met a few times over the summer, and Dumbledore helped him when he didn’t quite understand a bit Transfiguration review, and had even accompanied him to Diagon Alley to buy his sixth year books and robes. They’d already provided him with a simple wardrobe paid for by the fund for those who couldn’t afford to pay for Hogwarts on their own.

Dumbledore led him to Professor Dippet’s office in comfortable silence, all the way up the winding staircase. Harry wondered what Professor Dippet could want. He hadn't done anything to merit punishment, and their study sessions were over as he had taken his OWLs. By the time they reached the heavy wooden door Harry had imagined a thousand scenarios ranging from having received the wrong OWL results and failing everything to being kicked out of Hogwarts for some horrid offense, and had sweaty palms. They opened the door to find Dippet sitting at his desk with a pleased expression and an old hat next to him. Harry would know that dusty heap anywhere. It was the Sorting Hat. Harry wasn’t any less confused.

“Harry!” Dippet said exuberantly. “The Hat and I have just been chatting. Sit, sit!” Harry sat. “Now we’ve decided it might be best if we sorted you before the feast, just to make sure there's no awkwardness. You understand.” Harry’s brows dipped. What on earth did they mean ‘sort him’? Harry had been sorted his first year. He was a Gryffindor. He said as much, and some of his agitation must have have shown on his face, because Dumbledore stepped forward while saying, “No one doubts you Harry, surely the hat will just sort you as a Gryffindor again and all this hullabaloo will be over.” Harry was still reluctant, though he did not know why.

“Oh indulge an old man.” Dippet said, though Harry didn’t miss the slippery tone. He had grown to like the old Headmaster, but he knew well enough the old man’s love of experiments. Harry sighed and nodded his consent. “Delightful!” Dippet all but clapped his hands, while Dumbledore smiled on exasperatedly. Dippet instructed him to get comfortable, before dropping the hat in his head. Over five years after his first sorting and the hat still slipped over his eyes.

‘Hmmm,’ the familiar voice said in his head. ‘Yes what an interesting mind.’ Harry rolled his eyes. ‘No attitude boy, or I'll refuse to even sort you!’ The voice reprimanded.

‘Then what would your purpose even be?’ Harry thought back. ‘You exist to sort.’ The hat snorted.

‘Suppose you're right about that. Now let's see...a Gryffindor last time, by request it seems. Hmmm… I still agree with myself. You've got a thirst to prove yourself, and plenty of ambition. You’re altruistic, but ambitious.’

‘Now hold on,’ Harry thought with alarm. ‘Surely you're not considering changing my house! I pulled the sword of Gryffindor from you for God’s sake.’ The hat chuckled again.

‘I’ve no doubt you did boyo, but whoever said courage was solely a Gryffindor trait. No,’ he said over Harry’s protests, ‘I’ll not be swayed this time.’ “SLYTHERIN!” The hat shouted clearly.

Harry was in shock. His eyes wide and fists clenched, his face drained of blood. He wasn't the only one. Professor Dumbledore looked disappointed at Harry’s apparent betrayal, though Dippet looked like the cat that had caught the canary. Dumbledore cleared his throat and cleared his face of any trace of displeasure.

“Yes, I thought something like this might happen.” Dippet said merrily. “Perhaps this’ll teach you a lesson young Harry! You’ve confessed to knowing little enough about the other houses. I’d take this as an opportunity to learn.” Dippet was smirking. ‘Oh how satisfied he looks,’ Harry’s mind hissed, ‘It’s not his life on the line.’ Harry narrowed his eyes in determination, before softening his tone.

“Professor,” He said slowly, “surely there’s a way for me to go to my most familiar house. There’s a natural enmity between Slytherins and Gryffindors that I too sometimes fall victim to.” Dippet raised an eyebrow at his attempted silky tone. “Wouldn’t it be safer for me to stay away from that house.”

“No.” Dippet said with finality. “In fact-” He paused, looking at Harry closely. “I knew you reminded me of someone.” Harry was once more befuddled. He’d been more confused in this one afternoon than all the summer combined. And that included the magical attack that sent him back in time! “Tom Riddle!” Dippet exclaimed excitedly. Harry visibly started. Blinking rapidly, he sat back heavily. Dippet seemed not to notice. “He’s a sixth year as well, Slytherin. You’re much alike! I imagine you’ll both get on like a house on fire. And old Horace may recruit you for the novelty of it.” At that last statement he grimaced a bit. Harry meanwhile was trying to keep his heart from pounding it’s way out of his chest. He had bloody forgot about Riddle! How could he have forgotten?

“Either way, it’ll be a lovely experience. I can’t have students jumping between houses willy-nilly. What sort of doormat do you take me for. Off you go now Harry, or rather, Mr. James.” Harry nodded distractedly, still trying to calm his raging thoughts, and left unaware of the blue eyes that watched him all the while.

* * *

 

Harry had stayed in his room calming himself until the very last second. He weaved his way through crowds that as of yet had not noticed him (he was very good at going unnoticed) and sat at the end of the Slytherin table. Most of the seats had already been filled, and Harry could no longer fly under the radar. Many of the returning Slytherin students kept stealing glances at him, whispering, and soon it spread to the other tables. Students were craning their necks and standing on tiptoe to try and catch a glimpse of him. ‘It’s like they’ve never seen a new student before.’ Harry thought while arching an eyebrow at them. All this attention discomfited him and it took all of his will power not to hunch over or fidget. Of course, with his attention turned inwards, he didn’t notice the light hush that fell over the Slytherin table, nor did he expect to hear students drop into the seats all around him.

“I believe,” A voice began, “that you may be in my seat.” Harry’s shoulders tensed. A shiver ran down his spine. He knew that voice. Had heard it years ago. Heard it while Ginny lay dying on the chamber floor. Had heard it order the basilisk to kill him. He swallowed. And turned. And there he was. Dark eyes met light. Tom looked exactly the same as he did in Harry’s second year, down to the school robes and Slytherin tie. Pale and handsome, with brown eyes so dark they were almost black and chestnut hair. Riddle had his lips quirked a bit in what could’ve been amusement. Harry personally thought it looked like murderous intent.

“I’d no idea we had assigned seats.” Harry replied, finally trusting his voice to not waver. Riddle’s lips twitched. “We don’t.” He said slowly, as if Harry was a very stupid toddler. “But my friends and I tend to sit here every year.” His smile was still fixed in place, though his tone was frosty. Harry looked around the table. Noting that there were only a few spots for whatever first years may be sorted into Slytherin. Most were nearer to the other gossipy students, and gave the rest of the hall a very clear view of him. He would’ve loved to have moved, but he definitely didn’t want to be scrutinized by every student there.

“Come now Tom,” One of the boys that had sat around him said, “He’s a newbie. Let’s cut him a little slack.” The boy had a slick smile on his face, with an amused tone. “Name’s Alistair, Alistair Lestrange.” He stuck out his hand, crossing in front of a squared jawed pale boy, while Riddle went around to sit next to a sneering blonde boy. Harry reached to shake Alistair Lestrange’s hand, doubting it could get any more surreal than this, while keeping an eye on Riddle.

“This here,” the curly haired boy gestured to the boy his hand crossed over, “is Damien Mulciber, best not to look at him directly, you’ll lose your dinner. This,” Lestrange motioned to the boy on Harry’s other side, oblivious to Mulciber’s eye roll, “is Francis Dolohov. He’s a nutter, stay away from that one.” He continued over Dolohov’s “OI.”

“Abraxas Malfoy.” At this he pointed at the platinum blonde boy across from where Harry was sitting. “Victor Rosier.” A black boy with sharp features. “And Mathias Nott.” Mathias Nott cut a very intimidating figure. His dark hair was slicked back neatly, and he had deep, hooded eyes. Nott gazed back steadily, and Harry averted his eyes.

“And you are?” Malfoy asked, managing to inject as much disdain as possible into a simple question. Harry felt their gazes bore into him, Tom’s most notably.

“Uh, I’m, uh, Harry P- James. I’m Harry James.” He said, his voice shaking only little. Riddle’s stare became even more intense, even as Nott, Rosier, and Dolohov responded with various forms of ‘Pleasure to meet you’.

“I see.” Riddle began again. “May I ask-” Thankfully the Great Hall doors opened and a stream of first years poured in.

“Firsties!” Lestrange and Dolohov whispered together excitedly. “Here we go.” Someone murmured.

“Hufflepuff.” Lestrange said confidently once a little Anna Aarons was called up to be sorted. She was sorted into Ravenclaw. “Bugger.”

“Gryffindor.” Dolohov predicted for the next. The Hat called Gryffindor. Lestrange made a mark on the bit of parchment he had pulled from his pocket. This continued throughout.

“They do this every year.” Mulciber’s rumbling voice explained about halfway through. “I’ve no idea why. There’s no reward at the end.” He cracked a small smile, Harry smiled back hesitantly. “My sister was sorted last year. Al was so confident she’d be in Slytherin he bet money on it. You should’ve seen his face.” His smile grew fond.

“She wasn’t then? Slytherin, I mean.”

“Ravenclaw. I knew she would be, she’s always been bookish. I couldn’t place a bet directly, but Dolohov was very thankful for the tip.” Harry and Mulciber chuckled together, until Harry looked across the table and met Riddle’s interested gaze. The smile slipped off his face. What was he _doing_? How could he possibly sit here and _laugh_ with a first generation Death Eater? How could he be amused by _a Lestrange_ and _a Dolohov_? He knew, had fought against, their descendants! Riddle jerked back very slightly, just as the sorting finished and the food appeared on the table.

Harry broke off their eye contact to look at the food. It was familiar. Pies and entrees and whole legs of chicken, vegetables and potatoes and side dishes, all spread across the table waiting to be chosen. Riddle took his napkin and laid it across his lap, followed by the rest of the group including Harry, then took his time perusing the options. No one else moved save to pour themselves some juice or tea. Riddle took a piece of the shepherd’s pie with a side of asparagus, and then the rest of the table was off. Food was being passed back and forth. He noticed that the table was much cleaner, and it wasn’t a mad scramble for food like he’d seen at the Gryffindor table. Most students here sat straight backed and utilized every eating utensil. It was also slightly quieter, not to say students weren’t talking, just that they were doing it at a regular conversational level.

“It can be a bit overwhelming.” Mulciber said as he handed Harry a plate of chicken breasts and a pair of tongs. “Just grab what you like and don’t worry too much about all the fancy forks, yeah?” Harry nodded and smiled thankfully. “It’s your first year here isn’t it?” Harry paused for a second, before finishing serving himself.

“Uh, yes. But I stayed here for some of the summer. With Headmaster Dippet.” Riddle’s head shot up.

“For the summer?” Riddle asked, a little above conversational level. Another hush fell over the students closest to Riddle and Harry. “That’s quite...unusual, is it not? Very few exceptions are made.” Riddle’s tone was back to normal, and the group around them continued eating. This was it. The first time he’d have to use his cover story.

“The headmaster did say it was unprecedented, but he was friends with my uncle and knew my dad a bit.” Harry left off there, waiting for someone else to ask a question while he took a bite of chicken.

“Was?” Riddle was quick. Harry could be quick too. He laid down his fork and kept his eyes on his plate.

“I-yes. My parents and my uncle have passed on recently. The war.” He said by way of explanation. Lestrange and Mulciber nodded sympathetically. Tom kept his eyes on the boy in front of him.

“My apologies.” Riddle said, sounding almost sincere had Harry not heard the note of apathy in his voice. “Well, you’re here now. And a Slytherin. We’ll just have to show you the ropes.” Riddle said brightly.

‘Not bloody likely.’ Harry thought to himself.


	4. Hast Thou Clothed His Neck In Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where there is power, there is resistance.” -Michel Foucault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww shit, we've got some stuff in this chapter. This was 100% an indulgent chapter, but all of it is relevant to the plot. Lemme know if it's too weirdly paced or not really a realistic progression of events.

The rest of dinner was rather uneventful, and when Headmaster Dippet stood up to make his end of dinner announcement, asking for a better year than the last now that the business with the Chamber was over, he made no mention of Harry. Harry heaved a sigh of relief, though it may have been premature. Riddle had left to gather the first years and lead them towards the dungeons leaving his group of friends in the Great Hall.

“James.” A voice intoned from behind him. He spun around to see it was Rosier. Up close the boy was striking. He too had dark eyes, large, and slightly wide set. His skin was a caramel color with freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose and his prominent cheekbones. His large lips were pink tinged and plush. “You can follow us.” He continued. “Try not to get lost on the way.” He spun, walking towards the group that had been waiting by the doors. Harry followed.

“-don’t see why.” Harry heard Malfoy say. “You’re a mother hen Mulciber.” Malfoy seemed to have a perpetual sneer on his face and a scornful tone. ‘Genetics,’ Harry thought, as he had seen that expression on Draco and Lucius Malfoy both.

“James.” Mulciber greeted pleasantly, echoed by Dolohov. They began their journey downward to the dungeons. Dolohov was a constant blur of movement and sound. He flitted this way and that, beginning a conversation with Lestrange (Al, Mulciber had called him), then hurling a few light insults at Malfoy, back to Lestrange, then circling around the group. Retrograde motion metaphorically and physically.

“So Harry James,” Dolohov said as he finally found his way towards the back of the group, “From whence doth thou come?” Dolohov smiled expectantly as he fell into step with Harry.

“Fairly certain that’s grammatically incorrect.” Mulciber added, perfectly aware that Dolohov would ignore him. Dolohov simply grinned roguishly, and shoved a toothpick into his mouth.

“Come on now James, I’m burning with curiosity! And I know for a fact the rest of these scoundrels are waiting in suspense.” Malfoy and Rosier turned their heads around to give perfectly synchronized glares. Harry wondered if they practiced that in their spare time. Did they have schedules: Potions, Transfiguration, free period to practise nasty faces, a little light murder at the behest of our teenaged Dark Lord.

“Do tell.” Nott voiced silkily. “James is...not a prominent surname in our world.” Malfoy smirked up ahead and latched onto that thought.

“Oh, you’re right Mathias. Tell me, James, what did your family do? Why weren’t you educated here for the last five years?” Harry was starting to regret having James be his last name, if only because hearing his father’s name spit with such venom was painful. Harry’s eyes hardened.

“Homeschooled,” He began. “My parents thought I could do without...certain families’ acquaintances. And they disliked some of the more popular rhetoric circulated amongst certain circles.” He let his lips curve upward very slightly at the pale boy’s reddening skin. ‘Malfoy knows what I mean.’ Harry thought to himself. “And my parents were a part of the war effort in a way.” Not technically untrue. Just not in the war that was happening in the 1940’s.

“Against Grindelwald?” Lestrange asked, “I have an Aunt in Portugal that’s trying to stave off his advances there. She tells me all about it.” Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

“The muggle war actually.” Harry thought up on the spot. He knew none of these pureblooded wizards would know much beyond that Hitler and Grindelwald had an agreement. Lestrange nodded and hummed.

“The muggle war?” Rosier asked interestedly. “The one that’s causing all those explosions in Muggle London.” Harry nodded. “My grand-mère lives in Paris, and she’s constantly telling my mother about the noise and how the whole place is occupied by German muggle soldiers.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Harry said lightly. “My parents didn’t tell me much about it all.” Nott raised his eyebrows, his eyes flickering up to Harry’s scar, and opened his mouth to say something, but they had reached the patch of wall that would grant entrance into the common room and said, “Potestatum.” Instead. The wall rippled, then opened, and the boys stepped in. Harry could see the same leather couches and skulls that had been there when he and Ron infiltrated in second year (and didn’t that send a pang of longing through his chest). The light was still dim and green tinted, and the arches were still arching. Mulciber must’ve caught the unimpressed look.

“You get used to it all.” He uttered. “It’s ostentatious as hell, but it’s cozy.” With that he flopped into a nearby armchair, and gestured to another one near him.

“It’s a bit gloomy, innit?” Harry returned before sitting. “Bit dim and all.” Mulciber snorted and shrugged.

“I wish you would display at least a bit of dignity Mulciber.” Malfoy stated sharply, as he lowered himself gingerly into a chair. “I’d expect this from Dolohov or Lestrange, but certainly not you.” Mulciber snorted again, but sat up anyway. From what Harry could see all the boys were friends of a sort, though some were closer than others. Dolohov and Lestrange were near constantly talking to each other, matching each other in sheer bounciness and cheer. Mulciber was fond of those two, though he still maintained polite conversation with Rosier and Malfoy. Mulciber spoke with Nott when he could spare a few words, and Nott seemed only to tolerate Dolohov and Lestrange. Nott didn’t seem to be very talkative at all, as he seemed content to observe from a distance. His eyes followed Harry’s every move. His gaze wasn’t as intense as Riddle’s, and it definitely wasn’t as cold, but still it unnerved him. Harry tipped his head toward Nott. Nott raised his chin a bit.

“Oh hell,” Dolohov declared. “Who’s James bunking with? We got double rooms this year.” He added for Harry’s benefit. He and Mulciber tried to hash it out, speaking rapidly, and discounting pairings for this reason or that whilst Harry looked on slightly alarmed.

“Victor and I have planned to room together since fourth year.” Malfoy exclaimed.

“Careful Brax,” Lestrange teased, “Whine any more and everyone will know you care about someone other than yourself.”

“Careful Al.” Rosier broke in. “Else I’ll tell Greengrass what you said about her hair on the train.” He smiled widely, sharply. “Was there talk of poodles, or was I imagining that?” Lestrange sputtered.

“That’s not fair! I told you that in confidence!” Lestrange hissed. Soon they were bickering back and forth, with Mulciber trying to calm them both and Dolohov chuckling lowly. Even Malfoy had a smile on his pointy face.

“Listen-” Harry tried to break in. Lestrange spoke over him. He tried again. “I’m sure I can find a place-” He was cut off again to his endless frustration. Nott’s fingers twitched.

“-and your French is subpar!” Rosier finished strongly. Lestrange laughed meanly.

“You can shove the entire French language straight up your Franco-”

“He’ll bunk with me.” Nott asserted loudly, shutting everyone up. “Mulciber, you’ll room with Tom. The rest of you can room as planned.” Mulciber’s mouth hung open, before Lestrange kicked him and he shut it. Honestly this was all too much for Harry.

“Excuse me.” Harry said angrily. “I’m sure I could find lodgings on my own, thank you very much.” Who were these boys to try and manage him? Why in Merlin’s name did they think they had any authority over him? He was not a child, and he didn’t need to be treated as such.

“Oh. You’ll ask the mob of friends you’ve made in the last five years then? Or from the train ride?” Nott asked sardonically. Harry clenched his jaw. “Don’t be stupid. We’ve offered you a solution to a problem. And we’re not even asking for anything in return. That’ll be rare, so accept it. Or sleep in the corridor for all I care.” Nott said flippantly. Flapping his hand in a dismissive way. “I’m tired. Follow me if you’d like.” To the rest he said, “Tom should be back soon.” And left. Harry followed.

* * *

 

The next morning was awkward and silent, and Harry dashed to breakfast as fast as he could without running. He sat on the other side of Slytherin table, noting Mulciber’s puzzled look, and received his schedule from a hefty, boisterous man (who introduced himself as Horace Slughorn, his head of house and Potions professor). The day went quickly (though he was displeased at having to introduce himself in Slughorn’s class.

“My name is Harry, I come from Surrey, I like treacle tart.”) and he was only vaguely startled by the younger Flitwick. He’d had more free hours now that he’d dropped Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, and Astronomy. His breaks, however, were far from peaceful. The amount of homework the professor’s had piled on him in one week could’ve rivaled all the homework he’d gotten in all of his first year. He sat in the library during his free periods repeating his latest mantra. ‘Hermione’s not here, Hermione’s not here, Hermione’s not here.’ He’d think to himself, ignoring the little stabs of pain in his chest. In using his free periods for research and homework, he’d left himself nothing to do during the weekend, except read in the library. He’d picked up Time Travel: Theoretical to Practical because it was the first and only book he’d seen about time travel. He’d never have picked it up had he known it was so dry and boring. He’d been reading it for an hour and still it was going on and on and on about the author’s brilliance.

“Glaring at the book won’t make it better.” A voice said from behind him, he startled, nearly dropping the book in his surprise. Harry hastily spun in his chair. “I don’t blame you though. That book’s shit.” It was a girl. A Ravenclaw around his age given her tie. She had curly hair, dirty blond, and small blue eyes. She was curvy, and had round cheeks and small lips. She was also carrying several books under one arm.

“Does no one politely clear their throat in this school?” Harry exclaimed whilst attempting to get his heart rate back down to normal. She laughed and stuck her hand out.

“Ada Wernwicke.” She very proudly proclaimed. Harry shook her hand. “And you’re Harry James. Talk of the school. Handsome, mysterious, possible usurped prince of a foreign land. And apparent lover of theoretical magics?” She spoke cheerfully, if a little sarcastic towards the end of her sentence, and came around to sit at the table he occupied.

“A foreign prince?” Harry asked incredulously. 

“Yes, on account of-” Ada made a vague gesture at Harry’s face and skin. Harry’s eyes went flat. As did his voice.

“I see.” He said as he looked away.

“You can actually thank little Fleamont Potter for that one,” Ada said laughingly. “He, like his brother before him, enjoys a good laugh at the expense of the prejudiced knobs here that don’t look past the surface. Or so Monty says. I think he just likes messing with people, predjudiced or not.” She laughed again and Harry looked back at her. Her face had gotten sharper it seemed, and her eyes a little greener. Harry figured it must have been a trick of the light.

“Potter? What year’s he in?” Harry asked casually, looking down at his book as if he didn’t care.

“Fourth year at the moment.” Ada said obligingly. “Fourteen going on fourty, or so everyone else says.” Harry brought his head up again, mid-laugh, before it choked and died in his throat. Ada had transformed. Her previously curly blonde hair had been replaced by thick and wiry black hair, her green blue eyes had been covered by cataracts. She grinned and showed off sharply pointed shark teeth. Ada burst out laughing, full of glee, as her hair and eyes returned to normal.

“I’m- I’m-your face.” She gasped between laughs. “I’m sorry, I just had to. You’re the only one here that doesn’t know about that yet.” Ada wiped a few tears from her eyes and took a few deep breaths.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Harry breathed.

“Language.” Ada replied easily.

“You’re a metamorphmagus then?” Harry had gotten over his shock. It hadn’t been the scariest thing he’d ever seen, that honor went to a boiled baby Voldemort, but it had given him a fright. “I had a friend who could do that.” He continued. Ada smiled happily and nodded.

They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing metamorphmagi, the wild rumours that surrounded Harry, and the classes they had, nearly getting thrown out for how loud they kept laughing. Harry had opted out of History of Magic and had instead joined a special elective called Wizards, Witches, and Warfare, wherein they discussed politics and the history of wizard relations. Harry enjoyed the class, and had joined in on the class debate a couple of times. Riddle was in the class as well, and spoke out often, but Harry still enjoyed the class. Ada had signed up for it too, but she had yet to speak and sat in the back. Harry felt a bit guilty at not noticing her all the same.

“How about Professor Bennett?” Ada said. “She just sweeps in all,” She put on a haughty and hoarse voice, an exact replica of Bennett, “Everything I teach you is the most important thing ever. Do try to keep up. Blah blah.” Hearing the Blah Blahs in professor Bennett’s strict voice absolutely undid him, and they spent the next half hour laughing about that. Before they knew it it was almost dinnertime, and they had to run to get there on time.

Unfortunately, getting there just in the nick of time meant the only open spaces at the dinner table were near Tom Riddle and his group. Harry waved goodbye to Ada, splitting off to go sit.

“James.” Lestrange greeted amiably. “Been a bit. You’re a maniac with studying.” Harry laughed.

“I’m just trying to keep up with the classes.” He replied lightly. They didn’t need to know he wasn’t struggling all that much, or that he didn’t have any homework to do this weekend.

“If you’re ever struggling you could join the little group we have.” Mulciber offered. Dolohov breathed in quickly and shifted. “The study group I mean. It’s just in the Common room.” Mulciber clarified quickly.

“Oh I don’t know,” Riddle said. “Perhaps he enjoys spending time with Oddball Ada. Maybe James is just too good for our old Common room.” His tone was more than sardonic, and Harry’s fists clenched. Riddle was saved from a response by the appearance of the food. As it had been every day before, everyone spread their napkins across their laps and waited for Riddle to make his selection. As it had been before, Riddle took his time considering his options. Harry, however, didn’t give a single spicy shit. Buoyed by his time spent with Ada, and offended on Ada’s behalf, he reached out and stuck a spoon into the mashed potatoes. Harry, with his chin up and looking directly into Riddle’s face, brought the spoon back to his plate and served himself a big glob. The gasps were audible. Dark, dark, dark, dark. Riddle’s eyes darkened. His back straightened. His head tilted. Challenge accepted.

Dinner was an exercise in self control. Riddle’s group sat stiffly and silently, and the rest of the Slytherin table kept the talk to a dull roar. Absolutely no one looked in the direction of Riddle. Harry ate mechanically, his face blank. He understood what he had done. He understood that there was a delicate balance, an unspoken pyramid, carefully maintained in his house. Levels of power were sacred in Slytherin, and he had just spit on one of their most important traditions. Damn his temper. Riddle couldn’t do anything outright, at least not in the Great Hall. He’d have to sleep with one eye open for sure. If Riddle waited that long. Dinner disappeared and as one the Slytherin house rose and broke off into smaller groups. Very carefully engineered to look casual. ‘Well, I’m screwed.’ Harry thought. He’d considered running back up to the library or maybe locking himself in the coziest looking broom cupboard he came across. Harry shook his head. He was a Gryffindor damnit. Had spent five years in the House of the Lion. He wasn’t going to run from this fight. Riddle was a killer. A vicious monster hiding under a mask of a perfect schoolboy. Harry only regretted taking this long to challenge him. His mind made up, Harry made his way to the Common room.

Riddle sat in a high backed armchair near the fire, his followers spread around him, as though a king in his court. There were no other students nearby. None of the usual stragglers that sat around talking or studying. No one but Riddle and his boys.

“James,” There it was. A cold voice, deeper than it had been in his time, but still the same frostiness. “Come and sit down. I’d like to speak with you.” There was no politeness in Riddle’s tone. None of the charm he injected when speaking to others.

“I think I’d prefer to stand.” Harry said strongly. Riddle smirked.

“Restrain him.” Riddle hissed. Harry tensed, expecting one of the boys to try and get him. He didn’t expect the attack to come from behind. Two animated wooden snakes grabbed him around the waist and yanked him into a chair. They then crisscrossed, trapping Harry’s arms across his chest, like a mummy waiting for burial, and fell into stillness once more. Harry had been here before. Images of a graveyard and a burning scar flashed across his mind. Harry struggled against his bonds.

“Let me go Riddle!” Harry yelled. “Let me bloody go!” Still Riddle sat in his chair, shadows casting across his aristocratic features, making him look inhumane. A cold smile spread on Riddle’s face.

“You weren’t here last year James.” Riddle said casually. “So I don’t blame you for your ignorance. But I’m afraid what you’ve done today...well it’s a minor infraction. But one you won’t be repeating.”

“Oh I’m sorry Riddle.” Harry spat. “Have I troubled you? How dare I challenge you by eating.” Harry strained again.

“Zip it James! We’ve a way of doing things and you’ve broken the rules.” Malfoy hissed, sounding nearer to Parseltongue to English. Harry looked into the faces of Riddle’s followers. Mulciber was carefully blank, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes. Dolohov had a gleam in his eye. He looked halfway between gleeful and apologetic. Nott, Lestrange and Rosier were somber, with very little emotion in their eyes or postures.

“As I said James.” Riddle began again. “You weren’t here last year. You don’t quite understand what I can do. We’ll consider this your first and last warning.” Riddle stared him down once more. “I have power,” He said slowly. “Best you learn your place.” Harry sneered at Riddle. ‘I’ve seen you at your most powerful.’ Harry thought to himself. ‘You’re nothing but a whelp right now. A child playing at being a leader.’ Riddle’s eyes narrowed.

“Power?” Harry laughed. “You think convincing some schoolboys to follow you is power? You think they respect you Riddle? You think they fear your...prominent surname?” Riddle’s eyes flashed. Nott shifted next to him.

“Bloody upstart,” Abraxas hissed furiously. Harry’s eyes snapped to him. “How dare-”

“Leave us.” Riddle commanded.

“But Tom-”

“Leave.”

Tom stood as the boys shuffled off, Mulciber throwing back a single regretful look at Harry. Harry’s temper had gotten out of hand again, and was still raging.

“Initially,” Tom started, taking measured steps towards Harry, and then around. Harry tensed. “I intended to pay you no attention.” “You were just another student, nothing interesting about you. Good performance in class, most especially in Defense, but not overpowered. You don’t leak magic, you have undeniably light ideals. All. Uninteresting.” Riddle paused behind Harry, laying his hands on either side of Harry’s shoulders. Not quite touching. “But then I caught a glimpse of your thoughts.” Harry breathed in rapidly.

“My...You bastard!” Riddle chuckled darkly. Harry could feel the magic that surrounded Riddle. Dark and oppressive. An attempt at intimidation.

“Oh yes. Something along those lines. But you knew that. Your surface thoughts are quite expressive.” Damn, damn, damn. Harry’s eyes flickered back and forth, trying to find a way to escape. Damn Riddle, and Damn Snape and Damn Voldemort. He had no idea someone could perform Legilimency without Harry feeling it, without feeling like someone had dragged their sharpest rake down his brain.

“I thought it was a fluke at first. A silly stray thought. But then I saw it again. A man, more snake than human. And that name. You’re not supposed to know that name.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Harry lied. His breath came rapidly, shallow, afraid. He grit his teeth. “You’re insane. You’re out of your head.”

“No Harry,” Riddle breathed. “You know me, and somehow you know my future. I think I’d rather be in your head.” And quick as a striking snake, Riddle was once more in front of him, hand situated on his chin and forcing eye contact.

“Legilimens.” And Harry’s world exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so there it is YAY! I've told y'all before to check out my tumblr for Harry and Tom face claims, but I've got the boys up too.
> 
> http://rebel-revolutionary.tumblr.com/post/141290984278/with-and-without-the-glasses-its-for-a-tommary
> 
> http://rebel-revolutionary.tumblr.com/post/141378987268/the-knights-of-walpurgis-as-i-picture-them-while


	5. Now We Call The Arrogant Blessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Je pense, donc je suis." -Rene Descartes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooooooooo  
> been a bit. Sorry guys, I've been so blocked it's not even funny, but I'm back and trying to get back into the swing of things.  
> This is a lil filler-y and contains lots of thinky thoughts. Enjoy?

Harry could vividly recall the last time Lord Voldemort had been in his head. He could remember the searing, agonizing pain of a being far more powerful and malicious than he ripping apart his head. Tearing into precious memories and tainting them with his disgust. He remembered briefly losing himself in the swirling whirlpool of blackness that Voldemort held where his heart was supposed to be. The Voldemort of Harry’s time had been strong, detached, and cold. He guarded his mind carefully, only allowing Harry to feel his rage and bloodlust. Harry hadn’t lied when he told him he pitied him, nor had he allowed that pity to stop him shoving every emotion the Dark Lord had forgotten at him and forcing him out of his head. It had worked. Amazingly, it had worked, and he had taken possession of his own mind once more.

He would not, _could_  not, allow Voldemort’s younger self to do the same.

For an instant, Harry could feel Riddle’s mind touching his. The sensation was both warm, as though stepping into a fire-lit room after spending some time in the snow, and sharp, a cold violation of Harry’s innermost self. Harry’s panic met his deep determination, and there something passed between Harry and Riddle. A familiar zap of magic, twisting and sharp against their imagined skins cut into the both of them. Harry felt his eyes widen and somehow felt Riddle’s eyes widen as well. Only an instant had passed between the spell tumbling from Riddle’s lips and this strange magic bubbling between the dark haired boys, but it was enough.

In the next moment, the magic had built enough, had filled their air of the common room and had pushed all else from the boys’ minds. No other sensation registered. The two had forgotten all else, had felt as though they had never knew anything beside this particular magic. All had slowed to a crawl. They no longer moved in sync with the rest of the world. Had he been able to, Harry might have noticed the crackle of the fire had slowed, the flame swayed from side to side slowly, almost drunkenly. Had Tom had his wits about him, he might’ve noticed how the portraits had stopped moving. How they had their eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. He might’ve noticed the snakes restraining Harry had retreated. They were once more laid to rest. Their closeness of position did not matter any longer, nor did the blurred line between their identities. They breathed in as one, once, twice, three times. They shared air and cared not, for all they could see and hear and feel, was that enticing magic. As powerful as it was old. It was painful, but not in a dark and cruel way. No. It did not seek pain for the sake of pain. It felt more like the burn of a good workout. With the ache came a sense of satisfaction, of rightness. The two were entranced, completely and totally, with no chance of escape and neither were very bothered about that.

The magic had no more room to grow. Invisible as it was, it still held weight. Pressure built around the two. It seemed as though all the furniture in the room had been sat on by elephants. The couches and bookshelves and tables all began sinking under the weight, their legs pushing out beneath them and groaning deeply. The walls bulged outwards. Soon cracks began appearing in them. The cracking could be heard very clearly, the floor itself seemed ready to give way. Dust rained down from the ceiling. It floated, slowly, to the ground allowing the light from the fire to catch it and cast a gray light over the room, with only a few rays of green streaming in from the lake. Even there the windows weren’t safe. They had been made long ago and enchanted to hold up against most magic, but not this odd force. The air tasted tangy, a refreshing citrusy fruit. Harry heard the high pitched and jarring sound of glass shattering. The clinking woke him just long enough for him to break eye contact and look over towards the noise, only to see water flowing in, softly, as if a wild animal creeping into a new area cautiously. Harry gasped. In that moment, all the pressure that had been building contracted back into them, leaving Tom only enough time to widen his eyes before they snapped back in sync with time and the pressure exploded from them. Leaving only destruction and two boys lying in a concaved area where furniture used to be and with water pouring in.

* * *

 

Nott understood what he had gotten himself into, he thought as he wore a hole in the rug. He knew what type of person Tom was when he’d joined his group. He may not have believed every bit of the rhetoric, but he was loyal, and he stayed quiet. Tom was a force of nature. A man outside of the rules of society. He had power beyond imagining and still it grew. Tom did what he liked, when he liked, and Mathias couldn’t deny that was part of the draw. He’d wanted a bit of freedom, a bit of leisure and space away from all the intricacies of Slytherin and pureblood life. He never regretted his decision. He never questioned the man that would no doubt raise himself in glory and power.

Mathias also never felt the glee Dolohov felt whenever they were sent out on an intimidation mission. He celebrated, of course, his victories over his opponents. He’d never deny the satisfaction that came from backing your opponent into a corner. It was what came after that bothered him. The complete hopelessness and helplessness that creeped into the eyes of the defeated. The way they slumped and submitted and scraped about begging for forgiveness. There was never any fight, never any viciousness, and as such, no one had been elevated to the status of a Knight of Walpurgis since the beginning. Everyone bored Tom. As much as Tom hated disobedience, and as irritating as he found obstacles, Tom loved a good challenge. And that was the one thing no one attempted to do, at least, until Harry James came along. Nott sat.

The boy seemed like nothing much at first glance.

A floppy haired half blood, homeschooled and naive. Foolishly in support of muggles and their war efforts. And still. There seemed to be a steel in young Harry James. A backbone that Nott could appreciate, if not respect. His emerald eyes held secrets, his scar a story, and yet he kept his mouth shut. At least in the daylight. At night, despite the boy’s best efforts and silencing spells, he _screamed_. Nightmares plagued the other boy, leaving him with darkened circles under his eyes and a snappish morning attitude. The boy also wasn’t powerless. Rumour had spread that he was quickly climbing the class ranks in an array of subjects and his talent for Defense didn’t go unnoticed. Tom certainly hadn’t missed it, as he was only hanging onto to first place by the skin of his teeth thanks to his grasp of theory, though Nott would never admit that out loud.

There seemed to be hidden depths to James. James’ only predictable behavior was that he was unpredictable in most things. Except, of course, his coming to the defense of the oppressed and his hunger for justice. Nott had observed the newcomer carefully. He watched as the boy stopped older students from picking on younger, as he spoke gently if awkwardly to a crying girl, as he gave treats mindlessly to various animals around the castle. He had seen James go from completely uninterested in a class discussion to passionately, if roughly, arguing a point in no time flat. The worst part of it all was that James’ ineloquent arguments actually made a certain plebian sense. There were no hidden meanings that Nott had come to expect when arguing with a fellow Slytherin. And then. And then, there were the times he had seen a cold anger flash through James’ eyes, brief moments where those peculiar green eyes lit up with a power Nott had seen before, a power he’d chosen to follow. These were the times when James’ went cold and calm. Where his words were perfectly chosen, his speeches convincing and thought provoking. These were the moments Nott, and the rest of class, looked forward to as it usually meant a vigourous and indirect debate between Tom and James.

James usually lost when faced with Tom’s unemotional logic and self assured eloquence, but there was a _fight_ , and many had forgotten what that looked like. Tonight though, at dinner, had been different.

Tom had pushed the wrong button. James had gone just a tad too far. Tom had allowed this boy to get under his skin. . ‘Perhaps James sees more than he lets on.’ Nott thought while jumping up to pace again. ‘How else could he have known Tom would react so strongly when that particular stone was kicked over?’ A well aimed jab pointing out Tom’s unremarkable family was all it took, and now it could only end one of two ways. Them scraping Harry James off the walls or coming back down to the common room to find a well and truly broken little rabble-rouser. Nott spun sharply on his heel, the thought leaving him unsettled. He supposed he’d grown, not fond exactly, but used to the bespectacled boy. He rather respected James’ tenacity and work ethic. And those occasional moments between Harry springing awake from a nightmare and rushing to avoid his group of friends where they shared a laugh or conversation were not unpleasant. Harry had an air about him that allowed Mathias to breathe easily, and he never got on the Korean boy about being proper or speaking concisely. The best thing is that there were very rarely hidden meanings buried in their conversations. Nott appreciated the respite, not that the other boy knew that. Despite all of Nott’s apparent casualness, he still kept his distance. He remained aloof as his father had taught him and he watched and waited and watched some more.

Nott glanced over at the other boy’s bed. He didn’t know what had possessed him that night when he volunteered to room with James. All he knew was that it had felt right the moment he had spoken, and of everyone he knew if he could trust anyone it was himself. He had wanted to look deeper, but from one breathe to the next he felt his eardrums pop (like he had gone too high on a broom too quickly) and then the ground shook, once, twice, leaving him unbalanced. He quickly staggered back to his feet and, upon hearing the voices of his fellow Slytherins, swung his door open and stepped into the stairway. His mouth dropped very slightly as he took in the sights around him. The hallway walls had been _cracked_. Deep crevices ran through the cement in seemingly random patterns and dust fell from the ceiling.

“Nott? What on Earth…” He looked over to Mulciber, whose brow was drawn downward in concern and disbelief. The younger students were muttering up and down the stairway, some suggesting Grindelwald was attacking, others telling them not to be so stupid. The rest of Nott’s group elbowed their way to them, all looking as confused as the rest. Nott only had one thought. ‘Tom and Harry.’ He spun before anyone could ask his opinion and sped down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He could hear the tell tale pounding of his friends’ feet as they followed him toward his hunch, but he paid them no mind and ignored their puzzled questions. All of which stopped when they came upon the scene in the common room. The furniture was destroyed, chairs and tables splintered, glass cabinets shattered and  _holy hell,_ was that _water_ pouring in? Nott quickly whipped out his wand and muttered a few reparos to speed the magical repairs of the windows along.

“Tom?” Mulciber called cautiously, as if their leader would hop out from behind a pile of debris yelling ‘BOO’ at them. “Harry?” Mulciber tried instead. Nott registered the smell of oranges, and filed that detail away quickly, dismissing it as unimportant for the moment. Someone gasped. Nott turned his head quickly, trying to find what had caused such destruction and...there! Tom and James lying in a bloody crater! Looking for all the world as though they were sleeping peacefully despite being soaked in murky lake water and lying in the midst of an apocalyptic scene.

Footsteps pounded outside the common room, and then the wall slid open to reveal their winded head of house, a few fellow professors, and a furious headmaster, all with wands raised.

“What in the name of all things holy is happening in here?” Lestrange smiled gingerly.

“A little healthy academic experimentation?” He stated questioningly. Nott closed his eyes and sighed.    


	6. The Old Has Passed Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. ” -J.R.R. Tolkien, Fellowship of the Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whooooo!!! Banged this one out quickly. Anyways here's chapter six. Still no Tom or Harry cuz Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore wanted to play a bit, next chapter will be uninterrupted Harry and Tom. Enjoy!

July 31, 1996

Ron Weasley had never, like many other teenaged wizards, appreciated the beauty of a sunrise. He knew, of course, that they existed. Had seen one once or twice. He’d heard it revered and praised in many a ballad and Celestina Warbeck song, but really he’d never thought about it much. He didn’t understand the fuss when you could see it in reverse later on, all without losing a moment of sleep. Sunrises and sunsets were common. Constant. Every day occurrences.

Seeing it now, from the top floor of their wobbly little home, his knees curled up under his chin, the way rays of golden, orange, pinky-blue lights spread across a blue-black sky, the way stars just winked out of existence when faced with an even brighter light, he thinks he understands a little better.

Ron could admit that he hadn’t ever been accused of being too open. Hermione had told him more than once he had the emotional range of a teaspoon and most times it was his insensitivity that got him into trouble with the women in his life. Sometimes even the men. Really though, he prefered simple statements. Flowery words, poetic proclamations, and all that were never his style. He left the speeches to Harry, left the long winded explanations to Hermione, and carved himself a cozy little corner reserved for stating the obvious. It worked. Until it didn’t anymore. Until Harry had forgotten that night was for sleeping and nightmares were only supposed to come occasionally.

He remembers waking up one early morning the year before in his four poster at Hogwarts, halfway between his dream world and the real one, to find Harry curled up in the little window seat in almost the exact position Ron was in now. It had been cold in the room, Ron recalled. Colder outside. A famous Weasley sweater had draped over Harry’s skinny frame, clashing horribly with his green tattered socks and blue pinstriped pajama bottoms. Ron would’ve laughed had he been more awake. Harry’s breath fogged up the glass and the boy brought his mangled left hand up to doodle designs on the window pane. The soft, early morning light filtered through the window and illuminated Harry’s face partially and casting odd shadows. He had looked tired, Ron thought, and much older than his 15 years. Ron had wanted to ask him what he was doing, wanted to ask if he was okay, but before he could get the words out his eyes had slipped closed once more. He had forgotten about it the next morning. He never did ask Harry if he was alright. Ron rested his head against the window.

‘How many sunrises has Harry watched?’ He asked himself. ‘How many times this summer did he look out of his window at the Dursleys’ and just watch the sun trek across the sky?’ It seemed exactly the sort of thing Harry would do, especially when he was in one of his moods, the dramatic plonker. Ron cracked a smile, before letting it fall. They had written each other over summer, as per usual, Harry asked for the latest wizarding news, Ron gave him all the gossip he could think of, both of them skirted around all of the important things. Ron had been adding little lines lately asking him how he was, how’s it going, what’s new with you mate type things. Hermione was better with all the sappy stuff. She knew exactly what to ask and how to cut to the heart of the issue. She had said Harry was doing better, so Ron had taken her word for it. He regretted that now. He should’ve been more...more...more something! Supportive maybe. Interested. He didn’t know. He wished he had told Harry everything he was thinking now. Wished he had asked him what _he_  thought of sunrises. Wished he knew how many times Harry had woken from a nightmare, just to sit alone in the cold window nook drawing designs on the fogged up glass. Wished he asked if he’d even slept those nights.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think he’d get an opportunity to ask him later. He had absolute faith in Harry, but...But. There was always a but. Not a single bit of news had come in since whatever bastard spirited him away. Not one lead had appeared and all Ron could do was sit here and brood by his window philosophizing about bloody sunrises. He clenched his fists.

There was a light knock at his door, and someone softly calling his name outside. He gently called for them to come in. It was Hermione, her hair bushier than usual and her eyes red rimmed and swollen. Her pale pink nightdress gave stark contrast with her dark skin and with the dark of the room. She hugged a thick book to her chest.

“Alright?” Ron asked softly. She nodded.

“Can’t sleep either then?” She asked him, looking off slightly to the right. He looked back out the window.

“Nah.” He answered. “Just watching the sunrise.” An uneasy silence fell over the two of them. With Hermione looking down at her book and picking at the fraying edges, and Ron resolutely staring outside.

“Doing some light bedtime reading?” Ron asked finally. “That certainly doesn’t look like Tales of Beedle the Bard, but I’ll take what I can get.” Hermione flashed him a smile.

“I was reading this before bed actually, and then I got caught up and I couldn’t get to sleep.” She told him tiredly. “It’s...I’m…” She paused, seemingly unsure how to start. Ron stayed quiet, knowing she’d build up to it eventually.

“Professor Dumbledore gave this to me.” She finally finished. Ron raised his eyebrows. “He thinks it might have to do with what happened to Harry.” Ron sat up straighter.

“And,” He asked, straining to see what the title of the book was. “What’s it about then?” He finally caught sight of the title, _Time Travel: Theoretical to Practical_.

“Time travel.” He breathed. “Dumbledore thinks Harry _time traveled._ ” 

“I think so. But this book is so outdated and inaccurate. I’m only about a quarter of the way through it and almost nothing is correct! I don’t know what the Professor meant by asking me to read this.” Hermione seemed distraught and puzzled. Her hair bounced around her as she gestured frustratedly.

“I used a time turner for a year, with minimal research, and I could write a better book.” Ron snorted.

“‘Mione, you could outwrite Merlin himself, but there has to be a reason the Professor chose this one.”

“I don’t know Ron.  _I_   _don’t know_. It’s driving me mad. If the Professor’s right Harry could be literally _anywhere_.”

“Anywhen, really.” Ron deadpanned unhelpfully. Hermione shot him a glare.

He held his hand out for the book, uncurling slightly to give himself space. “Lemme see it real quick.” Hermione rolled her eyes even while handing him the book.

“Honestly Ronald,” She sniffed, “You won’t even be remotely interested in what this man has to say. It’s all theory.” Ron kept quiet while flipping through the book, letting the pages fly by until...There...Halfway into the book, at around page 500, there was a brittle piece of folded yellow parchment. Hermione shuffled closer to him, eyes wide with surprise.

“It’s no wonder you missed it, the Professor too, these pages are heavy enough to crease a pair of pants.” Ron exclaimed as he carefully unfolded the parchment. Hermione huffed, but ignored him otherwise. The writing on the paper was scratchy and messy, seemingly written in a hurry. Ron thought it looked familiar. The spiky lettering and those distinctive G’s.

“Is that…?” Ron trailed off, gawping at Hermione.

“That’s his handwriting.” She exclaimed. “That’s Harry’s handwriting, I would know it anywhere!” She turned her wide chocolate eyes on him. Ron could hardly dare to hope.

“Couldn’t it just be someone with similar handwriting?” He asked, though in his heart he knew they had found something. “Maybe we just want to find him so badly we’re seeing clues everywhere.”

“Oh Ron! Don’t even start! I’ve spent the last five years correcting yours and Harry’s essays. I’d know his hand anywhere! And look!” She pointed to the page and began to read. “‘ _1996, Avoid Prew and PTR, HG and RW still there, RL last to see, HW unchanged’_ and _‘transfig/dada/Wiz Hist_ ’ with all these arrows pointing to different words and phrases. That’s Harry’s shorthand. I’ve seen him do that when he outlines his essays!” Ron could feel a grin, an actual genuine grin, spread across his face, mirrored by Hermione.

“It’s really him then! We’ve got something!” He said excitedly, laughing a little, his heart swelling in his chest. Before he caught sight of something at the bottom of the page. It was smudged enough to be difficult to read and dark with little rips interspersed through through the words where the quill had pressed straight through the parchment.

“What’s that? Romans 3:23, Eph-es-ians 1:7, Hebrews 9:22? More shorthand?” Hermione brought the paper up to her face.

“No that’s... Romans, Hebrews, Ephesians? It looks like verses from the Bible maybe.” She sounded as confused as he felt.

“Bible verses?” Ron queried. “What use does Harry have for Bible verses? I didn’t even know he was religious.”

“He’s...not.” Hermione’s eyes met his, with her brows pinched together. “It must mean something. A code of some sort.” They sat there, silent, wondering.

* * *

 

“I’ve been reading Harry’s letters and essays for long enough to know this is his handwriting.” Hermione argued vehemently. Ron simply sat to her right, angrily staring down any who doubted her. In this case, it happened to be one Severus Snape. Hermione was prepared to argue this until she was blue in the face and in as many Order meetings, informal or not, as needed.

“You’ve been marking his essays for as long as he’s been writing them. Surely you can see the resemblance.” She emphasized this statement by waving the paper with Harry’s notes on it at him. She looked around the Weasley’s kitchen, only to find them waiting for Snape’s response.

“It is not impossible,” He sneered, while Hermione perked up hopefully, “But the odds are low, and Mr. Potter’s handwriting is not any more unique than other students.” Hermione deflated.

“Actually,” A Scottish brogue broke in. “Mr. Potter has a more spidery script, and he writes his G’s exactly like Lily. Ms. Granger, if you would.” Professor McGonnagall said while extending her hand for the yellowed scrap. Hermione hastily passed it to her, feeling buoyed by the possibility of Professor McGonnagall’s support. The Professor examined the paper closely. Order members leaned forward indiscreetly in anticipation. The room stilled as everyone awaited the final judgement.

“I’d have to agree with Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley, this does look remarkably like Mr. Potter’s handwriting.” The room erupted in a flurry of activity. Conversations between what few members had gathered for dinner broke out, with many saying they’d need to alert the rest of the order. Hermione didn’t care if they danced naked in the rain as long as /something/ got done now that they had a clue. Molly rushed about the kitchen, refilling empty tea pots and forcing thirds on the company, before coming round to Ron and Hermione and placing a plates of cake in front of them.

“Oh wonderful job, dear.” Molly congratulated. “We’ll be bringing him home safe in no time.” Of all of them, Mrs. Weasley’s reaction to Harry’s abduction had been the least predictable. Some had hedged bets on her cursing Professor Dumbledore before the week was out, but she had risen to the occasion marvelously. After that first night, she became a whirlwind of activity. First by drawing her children and Hermione into the fold, and then by having them help her rearrange the kitchen to accommodate all of the members of the Order. She had Ginny and Hermione help her with the washing while the twins and Ron cleared out the backyard. She then had Ginny make room in her bedroom to fit the soft little pallet they had gotten Hermione to sleep on when she stayed over, which was more often than not. Finally, she had Ron and the Twin’s cleaned out their old room so as to fit a new (old) bed. It was cheap and rickety, and it squeaked if one sat on it, but Mrs. Weasley had looked so satisfied no one had dared ruined it. Even Fred and George stayed quiet, standing just outside the room with soft little smiles.

Hermione was embarrassed to admit that she had misted up a bit.

Sitting there with Mrs. Weasley’s approving smile and the room’s admiration made her guiltily finger the ripped bottom half of Harry’s parchment that sat in her pocket. Hermione reminded herself that it was for good reason. She had seen Harry write like that before. Last summer when they promised not to give Harry any information, she had grown used to receiving alternatively pleading and irritated letters wherein Harry pushed the quill through the paper so hard it ripped. Many of the letters she had received had looked as though someone had taken a box cutter to them. Seeing that penmanship, the kind that exhibited Harry’s frustration and, well, desperation, had forced her into a split second decision. Harry hated being vulnerable, hated anyone seeing him vulnerable, and she had sworn to herself that she would do everything she could to shield him from what hurts she could. Without even a second thought she had ripped the bottom of the paper away.

She glanced over at Ron, and saw him in a similar predicament, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Anyone else might’ve mistook it for shyness, but when she glanced up, she caught the suspicious eye of an as of yet silent Remus Lupin. She nudged Ron’s arm and gestured up the stairs, gathering up her belongings when he nodded and stood. ‘Besides’, she thought to herself, ‘if it does turn out to be a code, I’ll confess then and there.’

She didn’t realize Lupin had followed until they were halfway up the staircase and the man cleared his throat. Hermione hoped he interpreted her little squeak as fear rather than guilty paranoia. Going off his raised eyebrow and suspicious gaze, she thought it unlikely.

“Professor? Is everything alright?” Hermione prompted innocently.

“I’ve not been your Professor for years Hermione, you can call me Remus.” He responded, though Lupin wasn’t as distracted as she hoped.

“What are you two hiding?” He asked, holding up a hand before she could deny the accusation. “Don’t even try to tell me you’re not hiding something. I could see the guilt on your faces even without smelling it on you two.”

Hermione looked to Ron, who shrugged. She took a deep breath and nodded to him “Right then.” Ron said, before pulling them all into the closest room.

* * *

 

“Have you tried the _Tempore Confectis_  spell yet?” Dippet suggested (unhelpfully in Albus’ opinion) from his portrait on the wall. “Or maybe a variation of a summoning spell combined with a tempus? Arithmancy Weekly had a lovely article about the potential benefits of writing out the spell’s formula in order to-”

“Yes, thank you Armando. I’ve tried all of that and, quite possibly, more.” Albus replied calmly, though he was sure they’d had this conversation already. Albus idly wondered if it was against school policy to put a headmaster’s portrait in the closet. He inhaled deeply and reminded himself sharply that it had been Headmaster Dippet’s idea to give the book to young Ms. Granger. Neither had really expected anything to come out of it, though her insights on Time Travel and the effects of it had been interesting. His initial diagnostic spell revealed nothing more than a faint detection of time magic, and he had been unable to determine what type or spell. Remus’ description of orange lightning called nothing to mind, and no books mentioned the color as significant to time magic. A personal flair of the kidnapper perhaps.

His resolve, and the resolve of the Order, had only been strengthened with the new clues, and now they knew Harry hadn’t travelled forward, nor did he travel before 1938, as evidenced by the book. A window of fifty or sixty years was much more manageable a time frame.

What perplexed him, he thought at he dipped his quill in the inkpot, was that he could not remember ever seeing Harry Potter, nor meeting him, during that time whatsoever. The book, according to the meticulous records kept by Mrs. Pince and her predecessor, had never been outside of Hogwarts. It was very unlikely that Harry ended up anywhere else either way, no matter how driven or bright the boy was.

“He’s young and out of his own time. He’ll stick to what he knows.” Albus had asserted. Armando was also singularly unhelpful and evasive whenever the topic was brought up.

(“Well it’s certainly possible that a boy who looked exactly like Potter could have come here in the time after 1938 and before 1996, but he looks so much like the other Potters I could have simply missed him. Oh, is that an owl I hear?”)

Albus wondered if portraits could go senile.

In any case, the matter of when Harry was was concerning. The possibility of Harry having been dropped at any point during Tom’s schooling, and the subsequent consequences, could be disastrous. Harry could accidentally reveal Tom’s future, or dramatically alter the timeline and erase himself from existence. Or if he ended up at Hogwarts with Lily and James, or even after they had left. The possibilities were literally endless if one believed the Multiverse Theory.

“Oh Albus, there’s no need to look so despondent. Children wander, he’ll show up again.” Dippet chirped. “It does not matter how slowly you go, as long as you do not stop. Do you remember who said that Albus m’boy?” He urged.

“Confucius.” He sighed, while pouring himself a cup of peppermint tea.

“Very good. Top marks. You must remember. As long as you are doing something to fix a problem, you cannot be accused of a failure.” Dippet smiled at Albus encouragingly. For all his years and experiences, Armando never failed to make Albus feel like a student once again.

His near constant stream of quotes was as familiar as the walls of this office, or the feel of Albus wand in his hand. The man, despite his propriety and graces, could be quite comforting when necessary.

Of course, his calm was immediately shattered as one of the instruments he had managed to repair let out a series of shrill shrieks, whilst he was taking the first sip of his steaming tea. This particular instrument was fairly new and shaped like a muggle snuff box, all gold gilded and decorated with flowers and vines. Albus rose from his chair in alarm. The snuff box belted out another repetition of REET-REET-REETs before dying out with a drawn out REEEEEEETTT.

“Oh dear,” Dippet uttered in the sudden silence. “That doesn’t sound good.” “Fawkes.” Albus called while ignoring Dippet, urgency present behind the single word. “Little Hangleton.” They disappeared in a blinding flash of light.

Fawkes and he arrived in front of a ramshackle old cottage. The walls themselves were crumbling and no longer remotely resembled the off white they had originally been painted. Vines grew over the areas of disrepair, while the grass appeared to be knee high, nature herself had reclaimed this place. The cottage sat in the shadow of a large, dark manor that the locals claimed was cursed and haunted, rumours only exacerbated by Voldemort’s year long stay two years back.

Albus moved forward cautiously, carefully avoiding the wards that were...He paused...Not there?

Albus cast a revelio and several other variations, and still, no wards. He moved forward faster now. He had just been here only two days ago, trying to find a way through intricately woven wards and dangerous booby traps.The prize had been another step toward peace. A ring, small and with a triangular black stone, used to sit somewhere below the floorboards. Albus had been able to feel the subtle power that radiated from it from outside the cottage. Now, nothing. The ring, and all the good destroying it could have done, was gone.


	7. Behold, The New Has Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The beginning is always today." -Mary Shelley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys here's a new chapter. It's over 4,000 words, I'm so proud. Enjoy! In this we have plot moving forward stuff yay.

He awoke gently. Drifting back into consciousness in a way he hadn’t in years, feeling as if he’d gotten a wonderful night’s sleep in the softest hippogriff feather bed, and finally settling back into his body fully. Harry recognized the smell of the hospital ward before he even opened his eyes to see the high ceiling and white sheets spanning across the beds. He shifted a little, for once not unhappy to feel the slightly rough sheets the infirmary keeps on hand under his back. 

 

“You know,” Ada’s voice said from his right. “I liked you well enough when we met. You didn’t have to go this far to impress me. I keep my honor perfectly in tact, thank you very much.” She’s smiling as she says it, all mischief and fondness, and he can’t help but smile back. 

 

“I’ve no clue what you mean, Ada.” He says coyly, albeit with a sleep rough voice. Ada purses her her lips, though not enough to exterminate her smile. Harry can tell by the dimples.

 

“Next thing you know, you’ll be asking for my hand.” She continues as if he hasn’t even spoken. “Unfortunately, white knight, I await another.” Harry chuckled genuinely as she dramatically brought the back of her hand to her head in the typical “swooning lady” stance. 

 

“Won’t you make an exception for a good Knight, dear lady?” Harry joked, as he pulled himself into a sitting position, barely restraining a groan. Though he felt well rested and relaxed, his body felt as though he went twelve rounds with Muhammad Ali and there was an incessant buzzing type noise in the back of his head. “What happened?”

 

“Careful there, eager beaver, ‘fore you go passing out again.” Ada stood from her seat and walked over to the water pitcher, pouring a glass for Harry and herself. Harry nodded his thanks as she handed him the glass and sat back in her seat. “And really, I should be asking you that.” She catches his puzzled look.

 

“There’s about a million different rumours going round.” She informed him. “Half say you flipped your wig big time Saturday night and dragged Tom down with you, other half says you and Tom were working on a project that, quite literally, blew up in your faces. There’s a small group saying it started at dinner.” Harry snorted.

 

“Everyone’s always saying something.” He said bitterly.

 

“Not your camp though.” Ada said casually, while checking her nails. “They’re tighter lipped than a pitbull with lockjaw. No one in Slytherin is saying anything. It’s really quite frustrating for the more nosy of us, especially when near every retelling uses the phrase ‘Oddball Ada’.” Ada raised an eyebrow expectantly. Harry looked away. 

 

“Is Riddle here too?” Harry asked instead, attempting to change the subject and avoiding her gaze by looking away.

 

“Yeah, behind that screen,” Ada tells him, while gesturing. “But he hasn’t been up at all these last few days either. I’ve seen some of his group gather here, giving you some rather ugly glares.” 

 

“Few days?” Harry exclaimed, his eyes flying wide with shock. Surely it hadn’t been that long. He could scarcely remember his time asleep, save a few disjointed dreams. Everything after Riddle’s “Legillimens” was fuzzy. Something must have gone wrong with the spell. It was the only way to explain the explosion and the odd...energy that had been in the room with them. Or maybe it had been in his head. He remembered, strangely enough, feeling deeply satisfied and seeing...No, surely that had been a hallucination, or a dream he was mixing with reality. But then...how could he explain away the odd visions of cold rooms and rotting wood. A cave with childish laughter echoing off it’s walls sprang to the front of his mind, along with the smell of damp dirt and sea water. And a name. Merope. Over and over again the name looped in his mind. He had never heard her name before, he was sure of it. Still, the name stuck. 

 

“Hullo! You there.” Ada interrupted his thoughts sharply. 

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“I said it’s Wednesday. You’ve been here since Saturday night. I come in during my free hours, but you mostly sleep like the dead.”

 

“Wednesday? Oh my God. Almost five days I’ve been here?” Harry cried shocked. He thought maybe a day or so, but five days in hospital! What had Riddle done to them? He felt familiar dark anger building in his chest, the like of which he hadn’t felt since grief overtook everything in him. Harry clenched his jaw tightly, could feel his muscles tense again. “And you said Riddle hasn’t woken? You’re positive?” He demanded tightly.

 

“Language, and yes I’m sure, I heard Madame Bobbit clucking and tsking ‘bout the both of you.” Ada explained, shifting in her seat. “Harry,” she said slowly, “I don’t really care what rumours they’re spreading, or, or whatever really happened. It seems silly, after only knowing you a day, but you seem familiar somehow, and I do genuinely like you, so...so thank you. For defending me, as unnecessary as it was. If, of course, that’s what happened.” She finished, not meeting his eyes and flushing. Instead she looked out the window, giving Harry the chance to study her side profile. She had chosen to stay in the form he had met her in, blonde hair and chubby cheeks included. 

 

Harry felt a fresh wave of fondness wash over him, forcing him to smile. There was something gentle in her, for all her smarts and jokes. Ada had, after only a day of speaking, stood vigil at his bedside, waiting for him so she could thank him based on what seemed to be rumour. She had a sense of honor in her that Harry could respect. Her quiet dignity and confidence in herself didn’t allow Harry to do otherwise, and so it was with all the truthfulness and feeling he could muster that he told her, “I’d gladly do it again. No thanks required.” She grinned at him widely before standing.

 

“Well, then. Now that that’s done, I suppose I’ll alert Madame Bobbit you’re up. I’d rather not be murdered by the matron for disrupting a patient’s healing. Oh, stiff upper lip chap,” She added after seeing his displeasure. “I’ll come by tomorrow with the work you’ve missed.” His groan and her laughter followed her all the way to the matron’s room and out of the ward. 

 

He was still smiling after she left, something he didn’t do very often anymore it felt like. There was something about Ada that reminded him, of all people, of Neville. The subtle steel she held inside of her was just the same as Neville’s (when he allowed himself to stand up to others). The other boy was sweeter than Harry, better. Certainly not more fortunate, but better. Harry couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened had he been the Chosen One instead. Harry wondered if Neville would be any different than he was now, had he had a prophecy hanging over his head, demanding he defeat the Dark Lord. Harry shut down that line of thinking before the bitterness burning inside of his chest exploded and he with it. He couldn’t stop, however, the line of thinking that led directly to his friends, whom he’d avoided thinking about much so far. He should’ve felt guilty, or longing perhaps, but he had locked away those emotions. Just as he had his grief locked tightly away, his fear, his interest too. He simply couldn’t let himself feel those things. If he did, Harry thought, he may well just lie down and never get up again. Despite what he told Hermione, despite Ron’s clumsy attempts at sympathy and concern, he had not been getting better. He had lied to Hermione because he knew she would only be gentle in her concern, treat him as though he were fragile and cracked, and Ron would be lost too. He’d have been on tiptoe and wouldn’t be as...as Ron-ish. Harry couldn’t possibly deal with that.

 

So, he had become the antithesis of what he had been during their fifth year. He strived to be the opposite of the boy that had gotten Sirius killed. Where he had been all hot rage and flaring tempers, he was now clenched jaws and shallow breaths. His reckless decisions had been replaced by inaction, his curiosity replaced by apathy. Harry knew, of course he knew, that this wasn’t the healthiest of coping methods. His nightmares shattered his every effort every night.

 

At night he couldn’t hide from himself. He missed Ron and Hermione desperately, like a hole in his chest needed filling and no one else could do the job. He missed the Weasleys and Remus and the Order. He missed _his_  Hogwarts and _his_  professors. He missed Sirius. He missed Sirius all the time. But Sirius was gone. Unreachable in death without even a body to bury or a real grave to visit. His murderer a descendant of one of the many of House Black that attended Hogwarts, or had graduated already. Harry was here, in their time, and he could do _nothing_.    

 

' _Useless.’_  His mind whispered viciously, sounding suspiciously like Snape and Vernon combined.

 

“Do you know,” A voice drawled from behind the privacy curtain. “That you’re both really, very loud.” Harry’s blood ran cold momentarily, convinced Riddle had been speaking about the voice in his head. He realized how ridiculous that would be, and realized he had been insulting him and Ada, _again_. His blood heated once more with his nearly forgotten anger despite his best efforts to contain it. 

 

“Oh I do apologize,” Harry hissed. “Perhaps the next time you land us in the infirmary, we’ll be more considerate.” The privacy screen folded in on itself, exposing a very dangerous looking Tom Riddle, despite the powder blue hospital pajamas he wore. Harry quickly averted his eyes, so as to avoid Riddle’s gaze and any repeats of Saturday night.

 

“Oh don’t you worry, I won’t be attempting to enter _your_  mind again. You must be truly disturbed to have kept us out for five days.” Riddle snarled, his voice just as raspy as Harry’s had been. Harry took petty pleasure in the fact that no one had been there to pour Riddle a glass of water. He bared his teeth anyway.

 

“Perhaps next time you won’t…” Riddle was saved from a truly scalding remark by Madame Bobbit, who had just come into the room to check on the newly awake Harry.

 

“Oh goodness, you’re both awake. Lovely!” She chirped happily. “Let this be a lesson to you both! Messing about with magic. You both should know better by now!” She tsked and scolded all through their examination (even giving Riddle water, much to Harry’s displeasure), by which she discovered they were both fine excepting some lingering magical exhaustion. “A lesson!” She repeated vehemently, pointing a finger at the both of them, before flooing the headmaster and retreating to her office.    

* * *

 

 

‘Harry James is a liar.’ Tom thought triumphantly.

 

He did not remember much from his time in the other boy’s head, but this, this he held onto. ‘Harry James  _Potter_.’ Clever to drop the last name only. That would make responding to the name far more natural than using an entirely new alias. Tom wondered idly if Harry was a bastard, if that was why he had the name, the look, and the bearing. Once one knew the name, there could be no doubt he was a Potter. Save the green eyes and fantastically interesting and lifelike scar, he had sharply aristocratic features. Fine cheekbones, not quite as sharp as his or Rosier’s, jutted from Harry’s face. His warm copper skin was smooth and mostly unblemished, only broken by the lightning in miniature white scar. 

 

But no, that wouldn’t account for anything else he had seen. Little muggles talking on a box of lights, telling stories and acting them out (a radio where one could see the voice announcers perhaps?), like a wizarding photograph and also not at all, bars on the window, a little cottage on a rock surrounded by the sea. The smell of rain and freshly cut grass, the smell of paint and cleaning product, and (alarmingly) blood were also stored away. Tom only seemed to see things in the abstract with everything only loosely slotting together, save for one single, clear image. 

 

A man.

 

A man falling back into an arch, falling gracefully into what Tom could only assume was death. He fell like a dancer who knew someone would catch him on the way down, all choreographed drama. It was beautiful and haunting. It didn’t help that the man looked like Walburga Black incarnate. Something in the curve of his mouth stood starkly against his pale skin and skeleton like face. The arch itself was a thing of beauty and terror, the sheer transparent quality of whatever was hung from it only added to its mystery. The stone shone in the low light, perhaps absorbing whatever meager source of illumination was nearest. The arch felt hungry. The same sort of hunger Tom himself had felt time and again.

 

The technology, the name, and that man all brought about a million different questions on their own. Only a few logical conclusions could be drawn, and one quite illogical. Tom hoped it was the illogical. Things had been getting dreadfully dull around this old castle. 

 

A fresh bit of excitement would be wonderful and a challenge was always a lovely and welcome distraction, so long as he brought said challenge to heel. 

 

Of course, that hadn’t worked out so well this time around. There had been unexpected...repercussions from his attempt to imbue his new housemate with respect. 

 

Given, he had goaded Potter more than usual in an attempt to catalyst such a lesson. The other had fallen in beautifully. His anger and light rebellion had given Tom the perfect excuse to _t_ _each_  him. Despite Potter’s quiet existence thus far, excepting the more argumentative days in class, the boy had fight in him. Had filled with a burning rage. Tom would’ve respected it had he not brought up his more...unfortunate parentage. Tom could admit he had acted unadvisedly, but that Potter. Well he was very talented at getting a rise out of Tom. Even now after that Wernwicke girl had left, they had been as snappish and defensive as wild animals. No doubt Potter would’ve jumped over the few beds that separated them to tear at him in a rage, and Tom would have welcomed such a response, wanted it even. 

 

He would simply have to plan better, come more prepared and more fortified. 

 

Tom allowed his thoughts to be put on hold as the Headmaster stepped out of the fireplace. The man quickly strut to the space at the foot of their beds, placing himself perfectly centered in the space between the the two almost men. Dippet took some time to assess Tom and Harry respectively, his expression giving nothing away. 

 

“So,” He began sharply, forcing Harry’s eyes to him and Tom’s eyelid to twitch. Tom had never heard this particular tone from the headmaster, nor did he like it very much. “I have been told, overheard, and contemplated a million different justifications or explanations as to why two veritably intelligent students would destroy their common room.” He held up a hand before either of them could say anything. Tom was armed with excuses and no doubt Harry was brimming with accusations. 

 

“I can only conclude that it is because, no matter how it came about, the both of you acted foolishly and without a single thought of the possible consequences.” Tom made a slight noise of protest at having been called, essentially, stupid, but was ignored as the headmaster continued. 

 

“Now your friends,” at this Harry snorted. “Have told me that you were experimenting with magic. 'Academic exploration' I believe young Mr. Lestrange called it.” Tom had to suppress a smile. Though Lestrange’s near constant jokes were grating most of the time, there were occasions where they landed quite well. Dippet paused, no doubt waiting for an answer. 

 

“Riddle-” Harry began, before Tom had smoothly cut in. 

 

“James and I were going over some Defense material. Light dueling and the like, but James hadn’t read up on theory, and his Bombarda and my Expelliarmus met in a rather, well, explosive manner.” Tom had made sure his tone was confident, and hadn’t looked over at Potter the entire time. He could feel Potter’s angry gaze on him nonetheless. It was a gamble. Tom couldn’t be sure the other would corroborate his story, especially since it painted him in an ignorant light, but from what he had seen of him, his selective obedience, strong will, and what little self preservation he had, Tom thought he might. No doubt Potter was wondering why Tom didn’t just lie and blame it all on him. Dippet narrowed his eyes before turning his gaze to the other boy.

 

“Is this true, Mr. James? This is simply the product of an unfortunate study session?” His eyes belied his disbelief. The way they were zeroed in on Potter made the boy fidget a bit. _Had he not been a headmaster,_  Tom thought, _Dippet could’ve had quite the career as an Auror._  Either way, all this spelled trouble for Tom if Potter couldn’t keep his head. Potter cast a glance at Tom, before quickly looking back at Headmaster Dippet and visibly steeling himself. 

 

“Yes, sir. We just got a bit carried away.” Harry stated firmly. Dippet raised his eyebrows, his piercing gaze never leaving Harry as he addressed them both.

 

“ ‘Carried away’ is certainly a way to put it. Your Head of House and I have put it to rights. Professor Slughorn seemed to find it all very exciting.” Dippet continued, with the lightest hint of disgust. “He’s advocated for the both of you as well. I believe, Mr. James, he means to invite you to one of his functions.” Tom perked up at the thought of getting away unharmed. Perhaps the headmaster would heed their professor’s advice. Tom could see Harry from the corner of his eye, sitting up a bit straighter after having Dippet relay Slughorn’s message. ' _Can’t help it, can you?’_  Tom thought smugly. _‘Curiosity killed the cat, Potter.’_

 

“I am, however, far less forgiving.” Dippet continued harshly. “The both of you will begin two weeks worth of detention, weekends included, when you both are recovered. Dippet continued over their rising protests. “Which Madame Bobbit has informed me is tomorrow.”

 

“But sir,” Tom cut in sharply, “My record is spotless, this’ll ruin it all.” Tom had created a very specific and spotless persona. None could doubt Tom Riddle, prefect, perfect grades, and handsome. It was what saved him last year after all. 

 

“Perhaps you and Mr. James can clean it whilst you’re polishing all the awards in the records room. By hand.” He replied firmly quelling any further argument from either of them. “You’ll report there directly after dinner tomorrow. Once you’re finished in there, you’ll be given another assignment, and another, until your two weeks are up.”

 

“Mr. Riddle,” Dippet called, forcing Tom’s angry eyes to him. “I expected more from you. And Mr. James, do not disappoint me as such again. I hold the both of you in high regard, and to high standards. Do not fail me again.” Potter lowered his eyes, two spots of color high in his face. The boy looked halfway defeated. Tom held himself tall, though he could not force himself to challenge the Headmaster at the moment despite the burning ball that had settled itself in his stomach. Really it was best. This would teach Tom to be more careful, to prepare for every eventuality.     

 

“Yes sir.” They both said, one after another. Dippet gazed upon them both for a moment more, before turning away sharply and leaving them to stew. Or possibly regret their decisions. Tom couldn’t find it in him to even pretend to be sorry. The stained record was an irritant, but he would have two weeks with Potter. More than enough time to figure the infuriating boy out. He could _use_  this.  

 

“I’m really quite sure this is your fault.” Tom stated. He could hear Potter grinding his teeth from where he sat.

* * *

 

 

Ada did bring by the work Harry had missed, as promised, the next day. She had even sat and helped him through it for her free hour, and had listened to his tales of woe somewhat sympathetically. Ada agreed that it was bad luck having to clean the awards by hand, but she pointed out that he’d be in the castle at least. She then told him the story of Charlus Potter’s unfortunate detention a few years back, wherein he had to go into the Forbidden Forest with the Herbology professor and ended up falling into a bushel of Poison Oak. They had laughed together as she told him all about the poor guy’s cherry red back and arms.

 

“He said he had bravely fought his way through a herd of centaur, and that’s how he fell, but the Professor told us it was a bloody bullfrog jumping out at him.” Harry laughed, snorting unattractively and setting Ada off into another fit of giggles. They studiously ignored Tom and Nott only a few beds away, speaking quietly and calmly. Because of their willful ignorance, Ada and Harry missed the quick glances the others kept sending their way. Tom’s eyes eager, and Nott’s cool and assessing.  

 

They were released later that day, sent off to their rooms to change and then off to dinner. Harry continued to ignore Riddle for as long as he could. He chose a seat by the first years at the dinner table and stayed silent, refusing to meet anyone’s eye and keeping his head up and back straight. He was not ashamed. He cared not for the opinion’s of these sycophants around him. 

 

Harry couldn’t stand all the “Bad luck about detention Tom.” “Ask ol’ Sluggy to fix it up for you Tom.” “It was hardly your fault Tom.” These were usually punctuated by glares in his direction and whispers ran abound. From what Harry could hear, it seemed the story was that Harry’s spell backfired while Tom was ever so graciously trying to tutor him. Harry rolled his eyes so many times during dinner it was as if he was eating in the dark for most of his meal. He didn’t hear Tom’s voice very much during dinner, but he chalked it up to quiet basking. Dinner continued peacefully otherwise, until a slight altercation at dessert had the table going still.

 

“Tom,” Mulciber said apprehensively. “Are you feeling alright?” Mulciber’s tone was light. Meant as polite rather than demanding or presumptuous, but Harry could see from his seat that Tom had sat straighter, more tense. 

 

“Yes.” Tom said shortly, before digging his fork back into his food. He might have wanted that to be the end of it, and before, it might well have been. However, it seemed Mulciber was too puzzled by whatever he was seeing to stop and be silent. Harry watched from the corner of his eye, one hand around his fork and one below the table ready to grab his wand if need be. He didn’t know what he would do if Tom decided to lose his temper in the middle of dinner. Harry liked Mulciber well enough, but he hadn’t forgotten that he was a part of the group that had watched as Tom tried to attack him, nor could he forget his descendants were direct enemies of Harry’s. The rest of Tom’s group, save for Nott who was still eating primly, looked on. Malfoy had a particularly hungry look on his face, but next to him Rosier’s jaw was clenched forcing his full lips into an almost pout and his head was turned slightly away. 

 

“It’s just,” Mulciber continued carefully, noting Tom’s sharp inhale and his fingers tightening on his utensil. Harry saw Lestrange twitch, likely hitting or kicking his friend, as Hermione did to Ron before he could say something insensitive. “Well, you’re eating treacle tart. A-nd, you don’t particularly like treacle tart. I was just wondering if-” He was cut off by Tom slamming his fork down by the side of his plate, not loud enough to be heard anywhere but the Slytherin table and yet sending vibrations down to rattle everyone’s plates the smallest amount.

 

“You were wondering if what?” Tom snarled. “If you were allowed to question me? Is that it?” He bared his straight white teeth, his lips pulling back into an almost smile, deadly as anything. “You are not.” He continued, looking straight into Mulciber’s wide, scared eyes. Mulciber was still, like an unsure rabbit caught in the gaze of a falcon.

 

“I could be rolling around on a bed made entirely of treacle tart and still, I would not welcome your questions, and still you would have no right to ask them. Do you understand me?” Mulciber swallowed hard and nodded once. Tom held his gaze for a few moments longer, before returning to his sweets. Tom had not raised his voice, nor had he performed any magic, but it was as if a storm had just passed through, leaving electricity and the smell of ozone behind. Lestrange and Dolohov engaged Mulciber in what they tried to make a lively debate, but Mulciber kept his eyes downcast, speaking short sentences in a soft voice.

 

Dismissal was a relief to the tense Slytherin table, until Harry remembered how he would be spending his night. 

  
It was time for detention. Alone. With Tom Riddle. 

**Author's Note:**

> Whatdja think? Follow me at rebel-revolutionary.tumblr.com and search up twtau to see my Harry and Tom face claims. Thanks!


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